


Flexible Arrangements

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Flexible Arrangements</i> series, in which Aramis meets Porthos at a yoga session and nothing is ever the same again.</p><p><b>Chapter 8:</b> The Squeaky Third Wheel, in which Athos isn't being wooed onceover, but twiceover and isn't sure what to make of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flexible Arrangements

“Remind me why I’m doing this?”

“Because,” says d’Artagnan as he prods Aramis into the gym with a nudge to the small of his back. “You owe me from the last time I was your wingman and she’s _really_ beautiful,” he insists, walking across the creaking floorboards to the front of the room. Aramis has the presence of mind to haul d’Artagnan back, mindful that this is a class full of people who can actually do something.

And Aramis is here because he is, apparently, a loyal friend. That’s the furthest from the truth that it gets. Aramis a loyal friend, but he is also a sucker, and has been convinced to join a yoga class so d’Artagnan can try and charm a young lady out of her trousers.

It’s an admirable thing, surely, but Aramis doesn’t know why he’s the one doing this.

“If something in my body breaks in two that shouldn’t break, you’re going to drive me to the hospital,” Aramis warns, shaking out the ridiculously pink yoga mat he’d borrowed from the ex. Anne had laughed in his face, practically shaking with the delight of it, and had shut the door in his face.

Look at what loyalty gets him.

“Why did it have to be me?” he complains, for what feels like the hundredth time.

D’Artagnan glances over at Aramis, unrolling his own mat as he keeps his eye on the door, most likely keeping an eye out for Constance, the lovely beauty that d’Artagnan has been unable to shut up about.

“You might break in half. Athos might actually kill someone if forced to relax,” d’Artagnan points out.

“True,” Aramis sighs. “Too true. I expect to be rewarded amply for my suffering here, today.”

“Class hasn’t even started yet and already you’re bitching about suffering,” comes another voice, interrupting Aramis’ pitiful train of thought. He looks to his left and discovers a familiar face. The name doesn’t quite come to him, but Aramis recognizes him as the new man in the office. It’s only rather noticeable because Tréville only takes the best of former soldiers into his regiment of highly skilled contractors and consultants. This man had been brought on because of his prowess and his power.

And yet, here he stands, mocking Aramis while wearing sinfully tight yoga trousers and a tank top that seems to be doing its level best to contain the muscles in his biceps, but giving the impression that at any moment, they might burst free. 

“Suffering comes in many forms,” Aramis replies, glancing to see if d’Artagnan will back him up (or join the mocking), but his attention now remains fully occupied with the lovely young woman who’s joined the class. He shakes his head, hand to his heart. “Ah, young love,” he says. “Apparently, it can’t be forged alone and thus, requires my presence despite my complete lack of talent in all things flexible.”

His new companion leans forward to take a peek at d’Artagnan sliding his palm over Constance’s torso, snorting in amusement. “He hasn’t shut up about her since I joined up. It figures. I tell him about this class and he shows up and falls in love with the instructor’s assistant in the first class.”

Beautiful _and_ bendy. “I think I might be in love, myself,” Aramis says, taking private joy in the chuckle he elicits from his new friend. D’Artagnan seems to figure out that attention has been drawn to him and he’s quite to shoo Aramis’ gaze away. He takes that as incentive to return his attention to his new friend and those lovely biceps and the way the man’s tank top shifts with every movement, giving brief peeks at his chest.

Honestly, if Aramis had known this much beauty had been hiding in a yoga room on the third floor in Le Marais, he would’ve considered flexibility much sooner.

“I’m rather shamed to say it, but I can’t remember your name,” Aramis confesses, placing his feet shoulder-width apart as he begins a set of stretches he’d long ago perfected when he’d been young and had played football, in his youth. 

The man offers out his hand, stepping closer and giving Aramis a good smell of an intoxicating combination of sandalwood and fresh detergent. “Porthos,” he says, grasping Aramis’ hand with both of his own, using the introduction as an excuse to pull himself in closer. “I’ve been watching the way you shoot,” he goes on. “You’re amazing.”

“I keep telling people so,” Aramis says, privately delighted that Porthos seems to share the opinion that Aramis holds of himself. “I hardly think I can hold a candle to you when it comes to fists, however.”

Porthos shrugs, stepping back onto his mat as the instructor wanders into the room, coaxing Constance up to the front with him. “Who needs a team where everyone’s good at the same thing?” 

Aramis can’t help but be impressed with his new friend. It’s almost enough to take his mind off the fact that this is only the beginning of an intermediate yoga class that he’d joined in order to help d’Artagnan secure Constance’s heart.

Now, watching the instructor begin to run them through a series of so-called ‘light’ poses that bear the unflattering name of ‘the camel’, Aramis realizes that he is in trouble. He fumbles his way into getting his knees on the floor, feet flat and shins pressed hard against the mat before he does his damned best to arch his back and grab his ankles. 

It’s happenstance that he glances to the side to see Porthos’ body arced in a beautiful, graceful, and smooth line that says that though the man has more muscle on him than anyone ought to, his body is willing to twist and shift into any shape.

_Yes_ , thinks Aramis as good sense begins to filter back into his mind. 

He’s definitely in trouble. 

It’s during downward dog that Aramis resolves to park his mat behind Porthos during the next class to get a much better view of that finely shaped arse that those yoga trousers hug in a way that makes Aramis doubt there’s anything on beneath.

It takes until the very end of the class and lingering beside d’Artagnan for Aramis to realise what he’d thought. _Next class_. As if he’s already considering putting his body through this sort of torture again. Everything already hurts and he’s definitely considering putting d’Artagnan through hell in retribution, but the boy looks so very happy. 

“And?” Aramis asks, wincing as d’Artagnan claps Aramis on his very sore shoulder (and how on earth is that sore? He’d barely moved the damn thing).

“I got her number,” he says, wiggling the paper victoriously. Something catches his attention and he nods to someone over Aramis’ shoulder. “Porthos!” he greets brightly, and Aramis immediately sets about acting as if he hasn’t been turned into the world’s largest walking bruise. “Seriously, thank you for telling me about this class,” he goes on earnestly. 

“Success?”

“I got her number,” d’Artagnan boasts.

“Now, remember. I’ve known you for a few weeks, but Constance? I like her. I like her and I wouldn’t feel bad about having to knock your head in if you did wrong by her.” Porthos is grinning sunnily while he threatens d’Artagnan, as if he’s got no qualms at all about making him fear for his life. “Do we have an understanding?”

D’Artagnan, bless his eager and earnest heart, has likely never considered breaking dear Constance’s heart. It’s where he and Aramis differ. Aramis has left a trail behind of ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends, some who have become his friend, but most who have fallen to the annals of not being enough. 

“Porthos, I’d sooner hurt myself,” d’Artagnan insists, his gaze sliding between Aramis and Porthos. “You two have met, right?”

Aramis knows they have, but right now he has the impressionable image of Porthos in the shoulder stand pose and he’s currently debating whether he could successfully suck Porthos’ cock without him falling out of the pose and whether Porthos could crane his neck upwards to provide Aramis the same sort of relief simultaneously. It’s possibly a better introduction than any ‘hey, how are you’ in the halls of the office could provide.

“We have, now,” Aramis says with a charming grin. “The better question is why you’re still bothering talking to us? You’ve got her number and you know how I feel about that dreadful waiting to call a girl rule. Go!” 

It doesn’t take much more than that and Porthos seems genuinely charmed by d’Artagnan’s young love.

“They’re a good fit,” Porthos says. “Constance just dumped her useless boyfriend, Jacques. The nerve of that man,” he growls. “She called me in the middle of the night, saying that he’d tried to kill himself and was trying to hold her hostage by saying he’d do it again if she left.”

“What did you do?” Aramis asks, crouching to begin packing up his things and using the opportunity to let his eyes lazily skim over Porthos’ thighs. 

Porthos shrugs, setting his yoga mat over his shoulder. “Checked him into a psychiatric ward and gave Constance my spare room.” His happy smile turns into a grimace as he watches Constance and d’Artagnan leaving the studio. “I think I just realised that if the two of them get together, there’s a real good chance I’m going to hear them having sex.”

“Perhaps they’re exhibitionists and prefer to do it in public,” Aramis teases, wondering whether the first day you meet someone is too soon to invite them to stay over at your place. _Probably_ , he thinks. Best to wait until the third day. “Actually, d’Artagnan seems too much a gentleman. There will be cautious and careful lovemaking in your spare room.”

Porthos wrinkles his nose. “You had to make me go and think about it.”

“All this time with her being the instructor’s assistant and you never thought it yourself? You’ve a steel mind, Porthos,” Aramis praises.

“Not really my type.”

“What, beautiful?”

“Female.”

That interest that had been sparked earlier is now slowly growing and that tiny flame has been kindled as Aramis suddenly sees the doors opening up in front of him, offering him the glimmer that he has a shot with his new handsome coworker. Of course, there is still that hurdle, but it’s not as if that had ever stopped Athos and Anne from getting together, even when Tréville had all but shouted the mistake of it all from the balconies.

To be fair, their marriage had lasted five years. Their divorce is ongoing and has made the office quite the dangerous place. One should never be so frightened of being caught in literal crossfire as Aramis is. 

“Well, then, it will be nice to have another ally in the office,” Aramis replies, with the hope that he’s come off sounding natural rather than dropping a massive hint in front of Porthos that he ought to ask him out. “Where are you headed?”

“Back to the office, actually. Don’t suppose you’re going in the same direction?”

Aramis doesn’t want to get too hopeful, but he suspects there’s something like hope in Porthos’ gaze, as if he’s anxious to ask, but truly wants Aramis’ company. It’s promising, and regardless of what comes in the future, Aramis could use more friends and allies in the office.

“The same,” he says. “I’ve got some paperwork to pick up. I think Tréville will find a new sniper for the team if I don’t turn it in. Athos keeps waving around resumes.” 

“Nah, they’d never replace you,” Porthos promises, opening the front door for Aramis and letting him go first. “Nothing to do with your talent, but you know how hard it is to housetrain a new sniper? The last team I worked with had awful habits, really terrible. Stole whatever food was in the communal fridge, no matter how big you wrote your name.”

“The heathen,” Aramis breathes out, as if lethally offended.

“Besides, you’re better to look at than most other snipers I know.”

It’s most likely little more than false praise to bolster Aramis’ ego, but he’ll take it. He preens in the way he always does when compliments are freely given and he finds that Porthos’ company is a welcome and easy thing. Their conversation flows warmly as they discuss where Porthos had come from before all this (a Navy man, apparently, who found the uniform too tight) and Aramis regales with stories of his own misspent youth and the troubles he had run from. 

They’re very near to the office when Aramis feels the first sign of trouble in his legs. 

“Oh, no,” he says. 

With the office building in sight, Aramis begins to feel his legs give out on him, all the trembling and the quaking finally giving way to the muscles exhausting themselves. He claps a hand on Porthos’ shoulder to steady himself, but even that isn’t enough.

“Aramis?” Porthos asks, concerned. “You okay?”

“Going down,” Aramis says, when he can see the future written in plain daylight. His knees buckle with the strain of trembling muscles on top of them, but before his jaw can hit concrete, Porthos swiftly hauls him over his shoulder as if he weighs nothing at all. Aramis isn’t saying he’s hefty or anything, but he’d like to imagine he weighs a tiny bit more than a feather.

Which, given the ease in which Porthos is hauling him, is the implication therewithin. He’d really like to protest this indignity, but the truth is that it does take off some of the pressure of having to walk on unsteady feet, all because he’d agreed to be a wingman. 

Part of him is, of course, upset that d’Artagnan hadn’t seemed to need much help, but being at the yoga class had given him the chance to get closer to the newest recruit among their ranks and gave Aramis a wealth of new fantasies to dip into at night. 

Plus, from where he’s dangling over Porthos’ shoulder, he has a wonderful view of the man’s arse. It’s enough to keep him quiet as Porthos brings him up the two flights of stairs into the office, where Aramis hears (rather than sees) Athos’ bemused scoff. 

Porthos turns them enough so that Aramis can sunnily wave to Athos with a pleasant grin, as if he’s just walked in on his own two feet and not being carried over Porthos’ shoulder like a caveman’s treat.

“Athos, lovely to see you. New scar, I see?” he asks, gesturing to his brow.

“Anne got hold of a letter opener and tried to chop off my ear after I insinuated that her target shots have been looking rather sloppy lately.”

“Shame, you might have looked good earless,” Aramis replies, patting Porthos twice at the small of his back. “I think I can stand, again.”

“Well, then,” Athos replies, a faint look of dread lingering on his face. “I see the two of you have properly met.”

Porthos bends half over, settling Aramis back on his own two feet. Unsteadiness is shaken away quickly and Aramis uses a hand on the nearby desk to keep himself upright, making sure that he doesn’t collapse like a newborn foal. “Wouldn’t you know it? Porthos is in the same class as Constance, d’Artagnan’s lovely lady,” he says, placing his pink yoga mat on his desk as he slides into his chair, exhaling relief as his screaming muscles finally get respite.

“What can I say? It keeps me calm,” says Porthos.

**

It turns out that _calm_ is something that Porthos should always be. Aramis could have guessed that Porthos was strong, obviously, but there’s no accounting for the sheer pity Aramis feels while watching Porthos beat on a heavily guarded dummy in the yard. Every punch reverberates in such a way that Aramis can practically feel it, like sympathy pains absorbed through the air.

“Is this what he’s like when he’s calm?” Aramis wonders, chomping on his apple as he spares a glance to Athos, who watches Porthos like a coach taking notes for the big game. “I’d hate to see him angry.” 

Actually, he might like to see Porthos angry. There’s a graceful fluidity to Porthos’ motions that have Aramis very happy to watch and it’s, honestly, very distracting. Aramis can only imagine the wonderful things Porthos could do with him when there’s anger brimming in his veins.

Athos probably sees the interest too, because he’s eyeing Aramis warily. “The last time you had that look on your face, you dated the daughter of our former boss and then you broke up with her.”

“She broke up with me,” Aramis clarifies, given that _his_ Anne isn’t nearly as violent as Athos’, though she had been fairly clear about the fact that she didn’t like Aramis’ tendency to seek out danger when he started to get bored with normal life. “And we’re still friends, though she has left roughly four angry voicemails about her pink yoga mat.”

How is he supposed to return it when he might need to take a sudden yoga lesson at any moment? At least, when Porthos goes to one at the same time and given their training schedule, he hasn’t been able to find a moment. 

“Aramis,” Athos growls.

“You know, your history isn’t the only way a relationship between coworkers can go,” he feels compelled to point out. “Athos, I like him,” he says. “He’s attractive, funny, strong, and you should see the way his body bends,” Aramis goes on, watching Porthos bend over to haul the dummy up from the ground, throwing two hundred pounds across the room like it weighs nothing. “Besides, he’s gay and he flirts with me.”

“You think everyone flirts with you,” Athos reminds him.

“They _do_!”

“When you first arrived here, you thought Tréville was coming onto you by ordering you about so much.”

Aramis flushes at the reminder, feeling indignant that Athos would trot out that example. “How was I to know that he was my boss? I hadn’t been given a physical description and suddenly, a gorgeous man was telling me to get my things off and get ready for a rough day. What was I supposed to think?”

“Not that,” Athos replies. “You’ll get your chance to get to know him, anyhow. You’ve been assigned with Porthos on a recon mission to gain facts.”

“What sort?”

“Stakeout.”

Normally, that might sound like the world’s worst detail – a punishment for poor behaviour in the past and served out with stale coffee, old leftovers, and a sleepless night. Now, though, he sees it as an opportunity to get to know Porthos a little better with no interfering interruptions at their sides. 

“Anyone in particular?” 

“There’s been some rumours of a human trafficking ring in the city,” Athos says, temporarily distracted by the way Porthos handily throws off an attacker, now that he’s taken to sparring with another person. “The man is supposedly a banker who transitioned into the commodities business. He goes by the name Emile Bonnaire. We think he’s set up a new base of operations here in Paris. We also suspect the Cardinal may be affiliated with him.”

The Cardinal – their never-met figure in the shadows, who seemingly has his fingers in every piece of crime pie that he can manage to find. They’ve always been close to him, but he has an uncanny habit of getting away anytime they’re near enough for an arrest.

If Aramis didn’t know any better, he would think that the Cardinal has someone on the inside. 

“And where’s Bonnaire tonight?” 

“Drinking,” Athos replies. “We’ve set up the van to pick up audio. We’re looking for the lower rungs in the empire. If we want to climb the ladder to the top, we’ll need those first. Find out who Bonnaire is using on the ground here. From there, we’ll make a plan.”

Aramis finishes his apple with a last bite, licking his lower lip as he watches Porthos wipe the sweat from his brow, yanking up his t-shirt to help mop at his neck. Aramis tilts his head to the side, appreciating that six-pack as anyone should ogle a beautiful man.

“Aramis,” Athos growls his warning. 

“Even if we did get together and split up, I’m hardly going to try and burn the building down,” he says sharply, throwing the core of the apple into the trash without even having to look. “Or are you jealous because you set your eyes on him first?” he wonders, giving Athos a narrow glare, wandering into the yard before Athos can sputter out a response. He quickens his step to get to Porthos’ side before his side can side down, possessively clapping a hand to the skin at Porthos’ back. “Have you heard the good news?” he asks, as joyful as any man can be. 

Porthos raises his brows, shaking his head.

“You and I have a criminal to follow,” he says. “How’s your cooking skills?”

“Manageable,” he replies.

“I’ll bring the coffee, you bring dinner? I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“Stakeout, then,” Porthos says knowingly, putting the pieces together. “I hope you’ve got a few good stories to tell. I always have trouble keeping myself awake during these sorts of things.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a terribly creative man. I’m sure I’ll come with a few ways to keep you alert,” says Aramis with a wicked grin. He’s yet to take his hand off Porthos’ back, but the other man hasn’t stepped away or said anything about it, so he’s going to take that as a sign to continue. They wander towards the lockers, where they find d’Artagnan wincing as he pulls off his shirt. 

Now, in the confines of such a small space, Aramis relinquishes his hold on Porthos, happy to tease d’Artagnan instead. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say those marks are the work of fingers,” he says, glancing to Porthos as if seeking out verification. “D’Artagnan…” He brushes lanky hair aside, chuckling with delight. 

“What?” Porthos demands, gravitating closer to see what Aramis has found. When he sees it, his laughter is buoyant and deep. “Should’ve known she had an oral fixation. There isn’t a pen in the house that isn’t chewed up.”

Aramis exchanges delighted smiles with Porthos, only realizing that Porthos has stripped down to nothing but a tight pair of black briefs and Aramis can feel the heat rolling off his body. He takes in a deep breath and ducks his gaze away, knowing that if he pushes d’Artagnan too far, the boy is going to take notice of Aramis’ own situation and turn the tables on him in a hurry.

He ducks his head down, opening his locker to occupy his fingers and to begin packing for the evening, aware that now that he’s seen Porthos in such a state of undress, that image is hardly going away quickly.

There’s something beyond the desire, though, and that’s curiosity. Porthos bears a great many scars and other marks on his body and while Aramis has been accused of being vain, he’s never looked for perfection in his partners. It’s a boring thing to see a blank canvas. Scars, marks, and damage (great and small) remains evidence of a life lived.

After all, he’s hardly untouched himself. He’s practically a pincushion, for the way he’s been stuck, shot, and skinned over the years. 

“I take it you’re going to continue seeing her, then?” Aramis calls over his shoulder.

“As often as I can,” d’Artagnan confirms with a boyish grin of delight. His look turns wary as he looks towards Porthos. “Don’t worry. She and I are going to start looking for another place for her, somewhere where Jacques can’t find her. You’ve been infinitely kind to her, but…”

“For the sake of our friendship, I think it’s better I don’t know what you sound like when you come,” Porthos cuts him off to agree.

Aramis shimmies into his sweater, flashing Porthos a wicked grin. “Something like, ‘oh, oh, Constance my light, my lady, my life,’” he affects, head tipped back and a hand over his heart. “Undo me!”

D’Artagnan’s glare is well-worth the mockery, but when he finds Porthos’ gaze sliding down over his neck and focusing on his lips, Aramis discovers a second benefit to his little show. He winks at Porthos, clearly taking advantage of the good thing he’s got going, and finds that Porthos’ blush actually shines at the high points of his cheeks.

Good God, Aramis could be in trouble with this man. 

“I heard you’re on a stakeout tonight,” d’Artagnan says, clearly aiming to steer the conversation away from his love life. “The human trafficker?”

“Bonnaire,” Porthos says, a dark look on his face. “I hate that man. The stories I’ve heard about him…” Any joy that might have been there earlier have evaporated, replaced by this dark storm. “He’s a selfish bastard who’s in it for the money, without a care of how many lives he ruins.”

“Then it’s going to feel excellent to bring him low, won’t it?” Aramis replies, stuffing a few things into his duffel before digging out the coffee thermos from the back of his locker. “Maybe he’ll even be so kind as to get himself into a situation where you’ll be able to pummel him.”

“One can only hope.”

Aramis claps Porthos on the shoulder, hoping to get across the developing rapport he feels with the man. He knows that it seems to be working when Porthos flashes him a brilliant smile.

“I’ll see you at ten, then,” says Porthos. “I hope you like ham and cheese because the last time we ate tuna on a stakeout, I didn’t last ten minutes in the car.”

“Whatever you make will be delightful,” Aramis assures because even if it is terrible, he is fully prepared to lie in order to make Porthos feel good. Having seen what he looks like upset and delighted, Aramis has already made a silent vow to ensure he never feels upset in his life. 

It would be like kicking a puppy and having to cope with the unfortunate dismay on the poor thing’s face. And honestly, Aramis doesn’t want to do a single thing to upset Porthos. 

He’s grown quite fond of the man.

**

Perhaps fond isn’t enough of a word. 

“Is it okay?” Porthos asks warily, glancing at Aramis as he sinks his teeth into the prosciutto sandwich with fresh mozzarella and added tomatoes and herbs, all on a focaccia crusted bun. He seems genuinely worried, even, and Aramis is currently struggling not to come from a sandwich alone.

“When you said ham and cheese, this wasn’t what I was expecting,” Aramis mumbles from behind a mouthful of food. “My god, Porthos, are you trying to kill me? Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“One of my foster homes when I was a kid, my Dad was a chef. I figured maybe they wouldn’t want to let me go if I learned to do the things they liked, so he taught me all about cooking.”

“How old were you?” Aramis asks, dabbing his thumb to brush away some of the garlic mayo. 

“Nine,” Porthos replies, as he leaned forward to pour himself a cup of coffee from Aramis’ thermos. “He even let me use the chef’s knife. Sometimes, I think that was the reason I went into fencing when I was in high school.”

“Did you stay with them?”

Porthos’ face clouds over and he shakes his head. “No. He had a heart attack when I was thirteen and it was only him. They found me another place to live, decent place, but I guess I never really felt as welcome there. Still, four years in a happy home where I learned how to cook isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

“You can feel free to show off your cooking skills anytime with me,” Aramis says with a flourish of his tongue pressing to the side of his lips. “Do you know any good breakfast recipes?”

Porthos’ grin is devious and beautiful, all at once. “Couple of ‘em, but I need someone to test them out on. Know anyone in the market?”

“I could give you a name or two, I’m sure.”

They share a cheeky grin and Aramis only pulls himself away when he has to test the surveillance equipment, shaking his head to try and shed the wicked thoughts that are infiltrating his mind. 

“How’s the sound?” he asks, fiddling with the knob and glancing to Porthos, who’s checking a pair of headphones. He gives Aramis a firm nod of his head and they filter the audio into the car speakers, the dim noise of the bar in the background. Through it all, Aramis can pick out Bonnaire’s voice like a silver thread through it all, hanging there with arrogance and ignorance. 

Aramis already hates him. 

“Now I feel bad that the coffee I brought is sub-par,” Aramis confesses, though it’s one of the better beans that he’s ground up, especially for tonight. Perhaps he might want to impress Porthos, but only _possibly_ (and completely). He absently pays mind to the chatter in the background while he finishes his sandwich.

And then he gestures to the next, offering Porthos a hopeful little sound.

“All right, have it. You’re lucky I brought extra,” Porthos says good-naturedly. 

“You’re the perfect man,” Aramis accuses. He cooks, he does yoga, he’s gorgeous, and he’s a noble man who tries to bring justice to the world. “You’re secretly a serial killer, aren’t you?” he teases.

“You found me out. I like to feed my victims poison in the form of delicious sandwiches after befriending them.”

Aramis smirks. “And here I thought you merely coerced them into snapping their necks doing untoward yoga poses. How long have you been doing _that_ ungodly exercise?”

“Since I was eighteen and threw a garbage can through a store window and was given the choice of calming down or going to jail,” Porthos confesses. “They recommended that I seek out an activity that calms the mind. It was yoga or gardening, and I never really liked getting my hands dirty. Then I figured out it helps to meet people. Otherwise, how do you think I would’ve met the friends I have?”

Aramis shrugs, seeing the good sense in that. “I don’t understand it,” he announces. 

“Maybe I’ll bring you by for a session,” Porthos says. “You joined an intermediate class, but I’ve got a few beginner moves I can show you.”

The shiver down Aramis’ spine is a terrible, brutal thing that makes him think that there are a great many moves that he’d like Porthos to show him, but few of them involve beginner’s yoga. “I didn’t think there was another class for days.”

“They open up the studio at night,” Porthos says. “Maybe when we’re done here tonight, I can bring you back tomorrow and show you something.”

Aramis turns the volume knob up, trying to ignore the dreadful feeling that this is progressing far beyond a mild little crush and into something that genuinely could become a problem for Aramis. He’s never been distracted on this level, especially not because of another man, but if he’s going to make an exception, then he’s happy to do it for Porthos. 

“Do you hear anything?” He needs to steer the conversation back towards work before it can derail into something that he won’t want to escape from. 

Porthos shakes his head and Aramis can’t even pretend to have heard any criminal doings because he’s not picking up on anything either. It’s a hell of a frustrating thing, but then, like a sliver of sun shining through the clouds, Bonnaire starts bragging.

“I’m going to be rich, you know,” Bonnaire says, the people around him going quiet to hear the blowhard talk about his plans. “My ship has come in and within a handful of days, I’ve got men set up across the city who will bring in the latest shipment. They’re incredible, really, the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

Aramis glances across the way to Porthos’ grimace of distaste and disgust. He can’t blame the man. Even a few moments of listening to Bonnaire and already he wants to punch him square in the face. 

There’s chatter from someone too far out of range from the bug they’ve planted, but Bonnaire’s response is clear. “If you really want to see the sort of quality I import into the country, you only need look as far as Monsieur Adans, who will be at the country club with his lovely purchased jewel tomorrow afternoon.”

Porthos grins at that, nudging Aramis in the side with his elbow. “See?” he breathes out, and only when Aramis feels the tickle of that hot breath on his neck does he realize how close he and Porthos have drifted in the course of listening in on the same radio. “And you thought tonight was going to be a waste.”

The tip combined with the information that he’s picked up about Porthos have guaranteed that the night is as far from a waste as is humanly possible. Unfortunately, it’s only a little past midnight and the bar doesn’t close until three. They have several hours left of work to do before Aramis can retire to bed with a thousand happy thoughts of Porthos and his grin on his mind. 

It seems Bonnaire is done with his drink soon after, given the sound of snoring coming from the bug. Aramis pries the ear bud from his ear and gives Porthos a haphazard shrug. “We’ll wait until they kick him out and then report back to headquarters in the morning,” he says, wrapping up the last of the food they’ve brought.

He’s in the middle of secreting away some of the macarons that Porthos had baked when Porthos rests a hand on Aramis’ wrist.

When Aramis looks up, he isn’t expecting the shy look on Porthos’ face and it instantly softens the man, makes him look a hundred times more vulnerable than he’s ever looked. “Yes?”

“That yoga thing,” Porthos asks, after he clears his throat. “I was serious about bringing you by, for a late night thing. Maybe even tonight?”

Aramis has spent the last sixteen hours with this man and it says something that he’s considering saying yes before he even considers how that might make him look. Three AM. It feels like centuries since he’s met Porthos, but it’s only been a matter of mere hours that boil down into days. 

Why not? They have tomorrow off thanks to the overnight and he hardly wants to dissuade Porthos’ affections. 

“If you break a single limb, there will be scores of upset men and women throughout Paris,” Aramis lightly warns. 

“Your ego’s as bad as his,” Porthos accuses, gesturing to the radio where Bonnaire has begun to speak about riches and beautiful women in his sleep.

Aramis holds a hand to his heart in grave offense, shaking his head. “I will have to prove you wrong,” he informs Porthos, because he might have quite the reputation for loving and leaving the good folk of Paris, but the truth is exactly that. Well, half that. Aramis has never taken anyone to bed that he hasn’t loved with as much as he could bear of his heart. 

It’s hardly his fault that a friendly and warm personality has given him the reputation for being quite the Casanova in Paris. Suddenly, he feels the most desperate urge to set Porthos’ opinion right, given that he can hardly have a man he’s begun to consider a friend think so low of him. And what better way to do that than to agree?

“Yoga at three AM,” Aramis agrees with a nod. “What could possibly go wrong?”

**

“Ow!”

“Aramis!”

“Ow, ow, ow, what are you doing to me?” he practically yowls in a pitch that would have the alleycats of Paris replying in turn. He gives a broken, disjointed gasp when something cracks, but then his muscles seem to relax and Aramis eases into the pose, feeling as if he’s just gone three rounds with the whip. 

Never mind that he’s only doing a spine-twisting pose that has released all the tension from his lower back. The pained look on his face has given way to a blissful smile and Aramis is eternally grateful that no one is around to see the indignity of his poses. 

Porthos smirks as he settles into a lotus pose, feet pressed so close to his thighs that Aramis’ legs twinge in sympathetic pain. 

“Better?” Porthos asks. 

A moment ago, Porthos’ hands had been all over him, guiding him into the right position. Those large hands skimming over Aramis’ bare skin had been the most touching he’s experienced in weeks. It’s a shame he’s managed to get this pose right, because it means that Porthos has gone back to his own rotation, as if going by memory.

Aramis is currently in an in-between state of exhaustion and alertness, the adrenaline from discovering a lead in the Bonnaire case warring with the internal clock telling him that it’s far too late to be awake. Amidst that chaos is a third force, the desire to impress and keep Porthos near and to learn more about him. 

“So, at eighteen you nearly wound up in jail. Where did the Navy come in?”

Porthos cracks open an eye, suspicious as he stares at Aramis. “Who told you that?”

“You work in an office, now,” Aramis says. “Gossip travels faster than the speed of light.”

“I think this is all a bit unfair,” Porthos protests, shifting onto his hands in an effortless move forward that has him with his palms flush to the ground, his legs supported on either side. He practically hovers above the floor like this and Aramis is bent like a pretzel, his whole body threatening to give out on him in an instant. “You know all about me…”

“Hardly!” Aramis interrupts.

“And I don’t know anything about you other than you’re a good shot and you like to sleep around. Fair’s fair. If you want to know more about me, you need to tell me something about yourself.”

It’s not that Aramis is ashamed of his past, but he doesn’t like to relive it. It sits where it belongs and he’s happy to move forward and not bother dwelling on it. Now, though, Porthos has to pry and try and dig into that past, unearthing it like a dog with a bone. 

“Fine,” Aramis agrees. “As long as you help me out of this torture position,” he insists, reaching his hand out for Porthos to grab. Porthos lowers himself to the ground easily and pries Aramis out of the pretzel, his spine popping several times in the process. He shares a disbelieving look with Porthos, aware that it’s probably not supposed to do that. 

“You okay?” Porthos asks, genuinely concerned that he’s broken Aramis.

He’s going to have to start learning about Aramis’ limits, otherwise all the helpful plans in Aramis’ mind are going to go to waste if Porthos is constantly occupied with fears of what his own strength might do. 

“My body simply isn’t used to these sorts of positions.”

Porthos’ gaze rakes over him. “So you’re not that inventive in bed, then.”

Despite his best urges against it, he flushes with embarrassment at the accusation. It’s the first time that anyone has accused him of not being well-skilled in the bedroom, though it’s the truth because while his tongue can murmur a dozen blissful prayers and his fingers work in mysterious ways, he’s never been flexible enough to attempt most of the positions inscribed in old, venerated books.

“You were supposed to be asking me questions,” Aramis feels compelled to remind him. In a contest between discussing his limitations in bed and delving into his past, he’ll take the latter any day of the week. 

Porthos nods, draping his arms over his knees and sitting with his feet touching Aramis’. “So what led you to Tréville’s outfit?”

“When I was sixteen,” Aramis begins, “I fell in love with a girl from my village. We were both terribly in love, but I failed to take into account that we were young and possibly making a mistake. At least, she thought that she was making a mistake. She left me, joined a nunnery, and suddenly I was without purpose. So I put myself into a dozen hobbies, including fencing and shooting and turned out to be quite good at both. I joined up with a small group and wound up dating our boss’ daughter, Anne,” he says. “Not to be confused with our current Anne, Athos’ ex.”

“Anne? From Austria, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aramis concurs. “She and I were lovely together,” he confides. “In fact, I had thoughts of marrying her.”

Porthos glances down at Aramis’ bare ring finger, arching his brow as if to ask why there isn’t a ring there, especially if things had been going so well.

Now, Aramis takes his turn to look rueful. “I fail to mention my best friend at the time. Marsac,” he says. “He was a charming man, able to win you over with a long look and a longer speech. In his cups, he could convince you that the world around you didn’t exist. Athos probably remembers him. We were all in Tréville’s service together.”

Porthos seems to know where this story is going. “What happened?” he asks softly, as if giving Aramis permission to stop talking about it, if he wants.

Aramis reaches out and taps his fingertips lightly on Porthos’ knees, gathering up the courage. “I didn’t quite end my relationship with Anne before I moved my way into Marsac’s bed,” he admits. “And she soon found out. We spent quite some time being at odds, but we’ve since made up. In fact, she’s the owner of that pink yoga mat I was using the other day.”

“And here I thought you just knew how well it accentuated your skin,” Porthos says. “Has there been anyone since Marsac…?”

Aramis shakes his head. “Only the brief nights spent with a stranger,” he says. “Marsac died in the line of duty. We tried to bring him back; he was only on the cusp of death and we thought that perhaps we might save him, but he wanted to go. He and I had already been over for some weeks and he felt betrayed, I think. I don’t know,” Aramis admits. “I never got the chance to ask why he didn’t fight harder.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to live with,” Porthos says knowingly. “I lost a few friends, back in my Navy days.” Aramis raises his brows curiously and Porthos smirks. “See? I stand by my word,” he says. “You told me about you, I tell you about me. I was in the Navy for no more than two years, but in that time, I lost three of my mates to disease, a gunshot, and the sea.”

“Any boyfriends?”

Porthos shakes his head. “Nah, I had a rule.”

“Had,” Aramis clarifies. 

“Yeah. Had. I didn’t date anyone I worked with.”

Aramis feels slightly uneven and unsteady, but he’s not quite tired enough that he’s ready to let that go. “You had a rule,” he says again, because he wants to focus on the glaring past tense of that word slotted in. 

Porthos shrugs, giving Aramis a shy and charming grin. “I’ve had a lot of interesting coworkers, lately.” He leans forward, and Aramis presses his hands against Porthos’ knees a little harder, bracing himself for a kiss that he thinks is ready to come. “Yourself included,” Porthos whispers with a deviant grin on his lips. 

“It’s late,” Aramis whispers right back. “There are so many bad ideas that could be made at this hour.”

“So we should wait for daylight?” Porthos suggests, reaching out and taking hold of Aramis’ hand, uncurling his fingers in order to help guide them up the inseam of his thigh. “And see if this is still going to happen?”

“We should wait for daylight and make sure this isn’t about loneliness or exhaustion or convenience,” Aramis is insistent on this. He does want this, he does, but he also doesn’t want this to be a three AM mistake. “Besides, what sort of gentleman would I be if I didn’t walk you to your apartment?”

“So you can see the inside of my apartment?” Porthos replies knowingly, a cheeky grin on his face.

Aramis makes himself into the picture of innocence. “Constance and d’Artagnan have seen the inside of it. Why should I be the last coworker to learn what makes up the inner workings of your home?” He’s still leaning in far too close to simply be a friendly sharing of space, but Porthos hasn’t protested and he seems to appreciate Aramis’ proximity.

Aramis is going to take that as a sign that this is going very well.

“Or, I can walk myself home and then tomorrow morning, you can come over for breakfast?”

Though he does his best, Aramis can’t help it when his face falls and he’s forced to recover before Porthos sees. Unfortunately, giving the pitying look on Porthos’ face, he knows he hasn’t succeeded.

“It’s late,” Porthos reminds him. “Three AM, remember? I want to see if this is going to happen when the both of us have rested and aren’t running on adrenaline. I’ve ruined too many potential relationships by burning through them too quickly.” Porthos’ hands cover Aramis’ and ease them away, a fond look on his face. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“No, it’s fine. I live nearby,” Aramis assures. “Are you going to be fine to get home?”

Porthos nods as he hauls himself to his feet, extending a hand out to Aramis. “Yeah, it’s ten minutes and I could use the time to clear my head.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, someone’s got it all cloudy,” Porthos says fondly. He lets Aramis go first, shutting down the lights and locking the door of the studio before placing the key in the hidden area. They don’t speak until they reach the sidewalk, poised to go their separate ways.

This is a strange situation for Aramis. He’s never really been in a position where he didn’t have the control of a relationship. Normally, he would simply close the distance between them, wrap his arm around Porthos’ back, and teach Porthos about the myriad of things he’s been missing out his whole life. 

And yet, Porthos wants to wait until the morning light to make sure this isn’t a mistake.

Aramis isn’t brave enough to dare to put that in peril. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Aramis says, with the weight of a promise in his words.

“Yeah, you will,” Porthos agrees with a promising grin on his face.

That expression stays in Aramis’ mind through the walk home and all the way through his dreams. By morning, he’s harder than he’s ever been and Porthos’ name is on his lips. He’s in deep trouble.

**

By the time nine in the morning rolls around, Aramis is packing up his things to head over to Porthos’ place for breakfast. He’s putting the sunglasses on his face when his work phone rings. Warily, he glances at the caller ID and wonders how upset Athos would be if Aramis simply ignored it. 

Knowing Athos, he picks up (because the answer is really, terribly, incredibly mad).

“Athos,” Aramis drawls. “I had today off.”

“Yes, and thank you for using the past tense so I didn’t have to,” Athos replies. “You need to be at the office by noon. Bring several outfits with you. You’re going undercover and Anne,” he bites out icily, “needs to get you and Porthos ready for the afternoon.” 

Aramis drops his keys back on the table. He’s only slept for five hours, dreaming of Porthos and waking up with the fervent need to bring himself off, but he’s still alert enough to hear every one of those words and none of them make sense. 

“Porthos and I have the day off,” Aramis reiterates, using present tense as if a weapon against Athos.

“Had,” Athos retorts. “We need to get closer to Bonnaire’s customers. We’ve managed to secure an inside track at the country club one of them is meant to be at today.”

Aramis vaguely remembers that from the tapes. He recalls something about a jewel and the woman that’s purported to be at the country club. Pinching the bridge of his nose, his sleepy mind now begins to work its way around to wondering why he and Porthos are being hauled in from their day off. 

“Do it yourself,” he protests weakly.

“I would, but they are expecting a gay couple and d’Artagnan is willing, but Constance seems rather less generous.” Aramis can actually see Athos’ faint smile over the phone and Aramis is truly pleased for d’Artagnan, but unsure how that’s roped him into this. “Porthos has a history of undercover work and can take care of himself. Besides that,” Athos muses. “D’Artagnan says the two of you have the appropriate chemistry.”

“You want us to pretend to be a couple,” Aramis clarifies.

“Yes.”

“Knowing that I like him.”

A pause. “Yes.”

“And the feeling is mutual, Athos. Are you sure you aren’t simply setting up a powder keg to explode?”

Aramis holds his breath, praying that he’s managed to strike the chord of Athos’ logic with the well-placed words. The last thing he needs is to pose as Porthos’ devoted boyfriend when he fears the line between reality and the make-believe will be blurred beyond comprehension too, too quickly. 

“If I had more time, you might have succeeded,” Athos finally replies. “As it is, I have three hours to outfit you and Porthos, fit you with backstories, and find you a pair of rings.”

Wait. What?

“Excuse me?” Aramis hisses. 

“Did I not mention? You’re posing as a married couple.”

The bastard has the gall to simply hang up on him, sending a text that _suggests_ that Aramis get to the office as quickly as possible with those outfits. It’s followed by several texts from d’Artagnan and Anne. The former is sending him apologetic texts and Anne is being as crude as ever, asking whether he’d like to look like the top or the bottom. 

Aramis briefly has the good sense to wonder if he should find out if Porthos has been briefed on this madness. Then he abandons it because the last thing he needs is the knowledge of whether Porthos supports this. 

He stops for coffee, but otherwise heads straight into the office for the nightmare that awaits him. And what a nightmare it is. 

Anne is waiting with that icy, press-lipped smile that she wields like a weapon, holding a sweatervest in her hands. Aramis regards it briefly, debates the effort of arguing with her, and extends his arms out as if in a sacrificial position. It’s almost frightening how quickly she drags him off to the women’s bathroom to begin stripping him, with such officious grace that he wonders if this is what sex with Athos was like.

“Careful,” he teases, with her hands on his hips. “I might think you like me.”

Her look could cut through steel. “You know, Porthos and I were childhood friends,” she says. “We ran in similar circles for a time.”

Aramis raises his brow. “Which circles were those?”

“The ones Athos doesn’t like to hear about,” Anne informs him. “I gave his recommendation to join our little private firm.” Aramis waits, wondering where her purpose lies. Generally, his loyalty is inclined towards Athos after the messy breakup, but there are debts he owes to Anne and he’s never really hated her.

Not the way Athos seems to, at least. 

“Are you going to threaten me if I don’t take care of him?” Aramis wonders, stepping into the dark trousers and buttoning up the grey button-down while Anne smoothes her hands over his shoulders, picking lint away before they get the vest on him, topped with a cardigan. The number of layers is ridiculous and when Anne plucks the wool cap from off Aramis’ head, he truly feels like a different man.

She holds out a simple gold band to him. “No,” she says. “Porthos will do plenty to you if you hurt him. Do your job well and get us Bonnaire,” is what she has to say. “I want to get whatever I can on the man we call the Cardinal,” she says, a furious hint in her expression. “Porthos is the best man for the job. I know you wish it should be someone else, but he’s good.”

“Better than me?”

“You always think you’re better than the rest,” Anne clucks her tongue, sliding the ring on his finger. “I now pronounce you wed to your wet dream.” 

He smirks at her, not willing to bother giving in to the panic that’s welling up in his throat. He holds out his mobile to be replaced with a burner, sliding that into his back pocket while Anne briefs him on the address and the details. 

“We need to get that man’s confession that Bonnaire helped him secure that woman,” Anne instructs, forcibly guiding Aramis back out into the main office. “Once we do, we can bring Bonnaire in for questioning and hold him while the proof mounts. Athos is already out looking for where Bonnaire operates. Knowing the way he works, I’m sure it won’t take long. He never did.”

That, however, garners a belly laugh from Aramis, secretly delighted when such gossip falls into his lap. 

“Anne,” he chastises. “You must tell me more.”

“Buy me a drink when all this is done. We’ll discuss bringing down the Cardinal, I’ll tell you about what Athos likes in bed and you can give me the same news of Porthos.

She’s hardly ever been out of the loop and Aramis knows that she knows there’s nothing between them. “Anne,” he says again, but this time there’s regret tingeing his words. “You know there’s nothing there.”

“There’s nothing between me and you, or me and Porthos. Don’t turn something into ‘nothing’ just to wave denial around to protect yourself,” she warns, giving his arse a brief pat. “On you go. You should see what d’Artagnan’s outfitted Porthos with,” she says slyly.

Aramis stumbles the last bit of the way, compulsively running his fingers over his hair and the shirt, feeling at odds with what he’s wearing. The belt is a bit more ornate than he’s used to, plus there’s the anxiety and lovely tumble in his stomach that is concocting up a variety of clothes that Porthos might be wearing.

It turns out, it is quite a lovely thing. They’ve outfitted Porthos with a pair of extremely well-fitted designer jeans and a pair of boots, with a long-sleeved navy blue henley that hugs his torso and accentuates each muscle. On top of that, he’s wearing a pale blue sash tied around his waist like a belt, that draws Aramis’ attention to the curve of his waist. D’Artagnan is in the process of trimming Porthos’ beard, to great scowls, and Aramis seizes the opportunity, plucking the clippers from d’Artagnan and easing in. 

“What sort of marriage do we have if I can’t even help you with your whiskers?” Aramis teases, sliding back into that old-hand flirtation that comes so easily to him. He glances down and finds a matching ring on Porthos’ hand. 

Within a week and he’s married to the man he’s developed a crush on. 

Well, Paris always did say Aramis moved fast, but never _this_ quickly.

Porthos goes breathless, staring up at Aramis. There’s worry on his face and Aramis momentarily isn’t sure if that’s worry for their situation, the clipping, or the fact that Aramis has all but descended into a straddle of Porthos’ thighs to get close enough to do this. Finally, Porthos exhales and Aramis eases down into that straddle. When he isn’t pushed off, he relaxes as best as he can. “I’m told you’re very good at undercover,” Aramis says.

“I do what I can.”

Aramis trims the beard until it’s presentable, taking care not to chop too much off. He’s always liked his men a bit bushy and he would be heartbroken if they took too much off from Porthos’ cheeks.

“Have you ever gone undercover as a married couple?”

“Once,” he admits, sliding his hands over his thighs, which inevitable runs his fingers over the inside of Aramis’ thighs, which is both delightfully intimate and horribly inappropriate for work. “Not exactly with someone like you, though.”

“Like me?” Aramis replies carefully, even though he’s aware Porthos doesn’t mean that in any cruel way.

Porthos nods, wrapping his hand around the clippers to set them aside. “Someone I _like_ this much.” The only thing stopping Aramis from doing something drastic, now, is the knowledge that they’re in the middle of the office and he’s well are that d’Artagnan and Anne are listening. 

One quick glance over his shoulder confirms this. 

Anne wiggles two sets of wires. “Come here,” she coaxes Porthos with a sly grin. “My turn to feel you up.”

“It’s like I’m sixteen again,” Porthos jests, helping ease Aramis to his feet and managing to grope his arse in the process, making it seem like a natural movement. 

Aramis succumbs to d’Artagnan’s roaming hands to get the wire outfitted somewhere that has very little chance of being discovered. He shoots Porthos a slightly overwhelmed grin from over d’Artagnan’s head, feeling rather strange about all this. It’s hardly his first undercover operation, but this one feels rather different. It’s almost as if it’s the universe’s way of giving Aramis a prelude to the relationship he wants to try out. Though, the fake-married bit is a bit of a leap. He holds up his be-ring’d hand and wiggles it. 

“Backstory?” he asks, knowing that someone has likely come up with a whole fiction.

“You’ve been married for two years,” Anne says as she winds the wire down to Porthos hip, nudging the sash a bit tighter in that area. “You met at…”

“The gym,” Porthos interrupts, catching Aramis’ eye. “He was doing yoga, had no business of being there.”

D’Artagnan perks up at that, a confused look flying between the two of them. No doubt he’s curious as to why they’re allowing reality to invade their story like this, but with a shrug, he goes back to work, digging out the receiver to test the wires.

“And Porthos was good enough to help me,” Aramis agrees. “Before I managed to break my spine doing poses I had no business attempting.” His smile is brilliant as he crosses the office floor to settle at Porthos’ side, trying to prepare himself for the play-acting that may actually short-circuit his mind and body, given how much he wants to touch Porthos.

And he’s just been told to do it for _pay_.

“Long story short,” Anne picks it up again when neither Porthos nor Aramis give any sign that they have anything to add. “Porthos proposed and you’ve been travelling since the marriage. You’re settling in back home and are auditing the country club of Bonnaire’s client. Strike up a conversation with him. Mention your travels through Africa and Asia. Aramis,” Anne says, giving him a pointed look. “You need to let your affections stray.”

He raises a hand to his chest, as if offended. “I’ll have you know, I am the perfect and loyal husband.”

“Perhaps,” Anne replies, “but Bonnaire’s man needs to think you’re interested in procuring something on the side.”

“Why not Porthos? Why me?”

D’Artagnan and Anne give him twin looks of disbelief. “As if anyone would believe that,” d’Artagnan huffs, giving the rest of them a nod. “You’re all set. We’ll hear everything that gets said,” he says, with a pointed look that tells Aramis that it’s a warning for the both of them.

Right. Personal conversations can wait until after.

“If only you stopped leaving your socks on the floor, I might not be looking for a mistress,” Aramis teases, falling into the act easily. “Adans surely can find me a bit of a tidier mate.”

“You haven’t got a clue what you’d be losing,” Porthos huffs his reply, playing along to perfection. He slips his hand in the back pocket of Aramis’ trousers, squeezing his arse and then leaving the hand there as they walk outside.

They have no audience and there is no one who’s supposed to be fooled here. 

Aramis begins to wonder how long he’s going to continue to fool himself into thinking he hasn’t gone absolutely head over heels for this man. He wonders how long it will take for his mind to catch up and believe that Porthos might feel the same way, from all the hints and inclinations. He leans into the touch, not wanting Porthos to get the idea that Aramis isn’t plenty interested.

“How tired are you?” Porthos wonders, giving Aramis a onceover. “Sore?”

“My entire body is singing with regret,” Aramis confesses, getting into the driver’s seat of the car while Porthos loads up the trunk with their props for the day (tennis racquets hiding knives and duffel bags that conceal guns). “I’m beginning to think modern day torture is missing its calling by not recognizing yoga as a viable technique.”

Porthos’ grin is one of the brightest and most amazing things that Aramis has ever seen. “It means you need more practice. Don’t worry. I’ll get you flexible, soon enough. It’s got benefits, you know.” He lifts his brow as if to imply he’s willing to show Aramis some of those benefits later.

He opens his mouth to reply wickedly, only remembering that they are wired and most likely being recorded. He clears his throat to bite back the inappropriate reply and smiles winningly. “Heart health?”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, tapping the area near the wire as if to make it noisy. “Plus, makes you a better fuck.” The smirk following his words is beyond wicked and Aramis falls a little more in love.

His laugh is both delighted and amused at the audacity of such a comment. He shakes his head as he puts the car into drive, heading to their destination. Their flirtation dies slightly on the way as they rehearse their backstory and discuss the various exits that need to be monitored. It feels good to let the responsibilities of work wash over him, reminding him that though he feels something for Porthos, there will always be work. By the time they arrive, Aramis feels completely prepared, but also completely wary. 

The charade is going to begin and Aramis is only worried that he doesn’t think he’ll have to act for a single moment. 

“You ready?” Porthos checks, glancing at his watch. 

Aramis takes a deep breath and lets himself fade into the persona that he’s been building up for the last few hours. Once he’s resigned himself to the torture that the next few hours will be for him, he steps out of the car and rounds it, opening Porthos door like a gentleman, gesturing towards the entrance of the country club.

“After you, darling,” Aramis says with a coy smile, handing the keys of the car to the valet. He offers a half bow and draws Porthos out of the car by the hand. He takes advantage of their cover story to draw Porthos close and brush a kiss to his cheek.

He wants to avoid a proper kiss on the lips because he doesn’t want to spend all their kisses while under the guide of false identities. 

Porthos seems to become a different man in the span of a few seconds. His guard falls away and Porthos no longer looks like a soldier. His shoulders are rolled forward and his posture is somewhat slouched, like he doesn’t stand at attention every single second of every day. Porthos slides next to Aramis and fits into his space like he’s always belonged there.

It’s simultaneously terrifying and amazing that it truly feels as if he does.

The people inside have been briefed about their newest members and lead them straight out to the patio, where a large group of people are enjoying their drinks – Mr. Adans included. Aramis wraps his arm around Porthos’ waist to bear him in that direction, brushing kisses against his neck as a cover to whisper to him. 

“Not too much affection,” he murmurs, laughing as though Porthos has said something funny. “Remember, you have to think that something is wrong with me.”

“There’s plenty wrong with you,” Aramis retorts, but he slides away from Porthos, ordering them both mimosas as he begins to allow his gaze to roam around the club, giving several long versions of The Stare while Porthos has his back turned. He tries to be as obvious as possible and luckily, eventually Adans seems to notice. There’s a curious look on his face and then Aramis knows that he’s begun to reel this fish in from his hook.

He crosses the room and gestures to the empty seat beside Adans. “Is this taken?”

“No. By all means, please sit,” the man replies, his dialect strong but Aramis can still understand him. “You’re new here.” 

Aramis offers a sheepish smile, scratching his fingers over his cheek. “My husband and I, we belonged to another club until a few weeks ago, but there was a bit of trouble. I ah, had an _indiscretion_ , shall we say, with one of the younger members.” He looks around, catching Porthos’ gaze across the room.

He knows that he’s meant to be playing the bored husband, but the lift of his brows and that adorable little smile he’s giving Aramis nearly elicits a tiny sound of desire from his throat. Aramis focuses on Adans, smiling brilliantly. 

“I’m sure we’ll have better luck here. After all, it’s hardly as if I would make the same mistake twice.”

“You know,” Adans murmurs. “I should introduce you to my girlfriend,” he says, snapping his fingers in the direction of a woman standing near Porthos. It seems that Porthos has managed to find the other half of their investigation and is quickly working to be charming while wearing that shy smile, ducking his head down and running his fingers through his perfect curls.

Aramis raises his brow curiously. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was an invitation.”

Though he’s laced the words with charm, Adans glares at him as though he’s actually intending to go through with it. Aramis smiles rather than try to dig himself out of that hole, knowing that he has to be careful not to push too hard, too quickly, lest the fish wriggle off the hook.

“Less of an invitation and more of a showcase,” Adans says. “If money is no issue.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Aramis points out, gesturing to the elegant furnishings that surround them. His smile is insincere, despite his best efforts otherwise, but Bonnaire appears to have found clientele as seedy and sleazy as himself.

It’s quite the talent, really.

Adans sizes him up carefully, as if looking at each fabric on his body, assessing the net worth of Aramis with a single dressing down look. Eventually, he seems to find Aramis suitable to share with and he gestures with a finger across the room to where Porthos has struck up a conversation with the lovely lady in question.

“That’s my Jade,” Adans says. “She didn’t come cheap, but she’s the most perfect woman I’ve ever fucked.”

Aramis cringes inwardly, but doesn’t let an ounce of it show. The wire is picking up every single piece of conversation and he truly hopes there comes an opportunity where he gets to play this back rather loudly. 

“You said that money had to be no issue..?” Aramis coaxes.

“Well, yes, she cost a pretty penny, but my man can get anything you like into the country. He operates out of many of those Far East countries, brings them in through some means that I don’t ask about.”

“Your man?”

“She’s hardly my first companion,” Adans says dryly. “Do you see what you like?” His gaze slides over to Porthos and he makes a face. “I can see why you’d want a little something extra. I can’t imagine you get much tenderness or intelligence, married to that.”

For the briefest of moments, white hot rage floods Aramis and he debates overthrowing the whole undercover gig in favour of pinning Adans to the table and beating him to within an inch of his life. He reminds himself that he will have optimal time to beat Adans’ face in later in the day. His smile is sheepish and he steels himself to be polite, though he can practically imagine d’Artagnan and Anne listening through the microphone.

Aramis is going to enjoy taking Adans and dismantling each and every aspect of his life.

“It is a bit brutish,” Aramis says, pushing through the ire to get to the point. They’ve got enough for interrogation and he has no doubt that Adans will fold under pressure, but he wants to make sure he never has to come here again and rub elbows with these people. “My tastes do trend towards the male of the species. Does your ah … man, deal in both?”

Adans scribbles down a number on a paper, glances around the room and presses it into Aramis’ palm. “Don’t tell him I sent you,” he warns. “He can find you something a little less wild.”

Aramis hears his phone go off in his pocket and when he checks the text that’s just come in, it reads: _Have plenty. Stay for the afternoon._ There’s a second text that comes in seconds after that. _Sorry_.

He pockets the paper and flashes Adans a grateful smile. “You’re sure it will be a deal worth my money?” He can’t help but try and get a little more out of the man. He even leans forward to avoid noise interfering in the recording.

“Bonnaire is a well-seasoned tradesman. He’s dealt with commodities for many years. He can get you anything you want, provided you can pay.”

Aramis’ smile turns genuine as he salutes Adans and makes his way over to Porthos, who now stands alone at the bar with a martini in his hands. After checking that Adans isn’t looking, but everyone else is, Aramis slides his palm up Porthos’ back, leaning on the other man a little harder than he might, but the anger has boiled into a pit in his stomach and he needs to do something about it – as if to prove that there could be no better man in the world than Porthos.

“What’s up?” Porthos asks quietly.

He shakes his head, too aware they’re wired and being listened to. Still, some things don’t require words. Aramis hadn’t wanted to do this on the job, but he feels like he might combust if he doesn’t give in to this horrid feeling of needing to prove that Porthos is a singularly perfect man.

He brushes his fingers over Porthos’ cheek, pressing forward until the weight of his body rests on his toes so that when he kisses Porthos, it’s like he’s falling into him. Luckily, Porthos catches, grasping Aramis by the hips and pulling him in closer. Perhaps it’s a good idea to do this on assignment, because it means there’s little chance of Porthos recoiling, lest they delve into a faux argument in public.

There’s a satisfaction in kissing Porthos like this, other hand cupping Porthos’ other cheek and sliding down to his neck where the warmth of Porthos’ skin and the ever-intensifying pulsebeat makes Aramis feel flush with daring. He wraps his arms around Porthos neck and deepens the kiss, aware that Porthos will feel the desperation, but for a first kiss while undercover with a man you’ve only barely met, it’s still far and above the last few kisses Aramis has had.

Eventually, Porthos gently eases him away, a concerned look on his face. “Aramis...?”

“I had to prove something,” he says, swallowing back the bite of anger. He wants to draw Porthos into this and show Adans precisely the mettle of this man, but he knows they can’t endanger today. “I’ll explain later,” he says, fingers hovering around the microphone. “D’Artagnan says they have enough and that we’re to spend the afternoon here, monitoring Adans, no less. Any plans, in particular, you’d like to indulge in?”

Porthos grins and nods to a nearby table. “How about you come sit in my lap and I feed you strawberries like the doting husband I am, unaware that his partner is seeking sexual care packages?” he offers.

Aramis tilts his head to the side, as if considering the offer. “I like orange slices better. The slightly acidic sting is exciting,” he teases, but grasps Porthos’ hand when it’s offered to him, settling into Porthos’ lap with a deep breath to steady his nerves (and other parts of him) while they order a bowl of fruit and … god help him … whipped crème. 

It’s roughly fifteen minutes into this happy little torture that Aramis smirks, a strawberry pressed to his lips.

Porthos, flushed, clears his throat. “It’s hardly like I could not be affected,” he growls. “You’re in my lap and your mouth…Aramis, I swear to god, when we’re done with this, we’re going back to your place.”

Aramis crows with delighted laughter, gesturing to the microphone once more and Porthos’ eyes widen in shock, as if he’d forgotten all about it. 

“For … paperwork,” he sputters out. “We’ll go back to your place for paperwork.”

Aramis can’t stop laughing and he presses his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder when tears actually begin to appear. It’s the sort of thing that’s going to be embarrassing for him at the office, too, but he lacks Porthos’ delicate constitution that has him blushing so much. 

Porthos seems to want to take his revenge by pinching Aramis at the hip. It does very little for the laughter and he finds himself settling in again with a sigh of amused delight, shifting so he can place them with their backs to the walls, all eyes on the room around them. 

“You know, he didn’t think I would be married to someone like you,” Aramis says, as casually as he can. There’s no need to mention the exact words. “Which shows how little a man like Adans knows about the world. You’re one of the best men I’ve ever met. Honestly, it’s a wonder to me why you’re single.”

“Because I decided that the next relationship I’m in is going to be a serious one,” Porthos replies. 

Aramis feels as if they’re stumbled into the talk they were going to have. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I know I’m not old or anything, but I’m ready for something more serious.”

Aramis wiggles the wedding ring on his finger, smirking. “Congratulations, in the course of a week of meeting me, you’ve accomplished your exact goal.” He deserves it when Porthos pinches again, this time at the soft skin at Aramis’ stomach. He lets out a yelp, hoping d’Artagnan doesn’t think he’s being tortured. “When you say serious…?”

“It’s not like I’m talking about weddings straight away,” Porthos defends himself. “I just don’t want a one night stand. I’m done with them. I know you say you haven’t exactly slept with anyone lately, but you do have a reputation,” he says apologetically. “I just wanted to make sure things were clear before anything happened.” His smile is rueful though. “Suppose it’s a bit late for that.”

“It’s hardly like Athos knew we were due for a heart to heart,” Aramis offers. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the office has heard every word.”

The sound of an incoming text makes Aramis chuckle under his breath as he offers his phone to Porthos, who brings up the message.

“It’s d’Artagnan.”

“And what does he have to say?”

“Athos has got Bonnaire, all the audio has been logged, and they stopped recording five minutes ago,” Porthos reports, squinting when another text comes in (and oh, Lord, if Porthos wears reading glasses, then Aramis is truly in for trouble). “He says you’re welcome,” he adds, giving Aramis a confused look. “And that he no longer owes you?”

“Like hell,” Aramis huffs, grabbing his phone back. “Does he say anything about Adans?”

“They’re going to get a warrant and continue surveillance,” Porthos says, gesturing to the phone. “Or you could read your own texts. When I married you, I didn’t realize I’d be covering up your illiteracy.”

“You wound me,” Aramis complains, standing and helping Porthos to his feet. “I suppose that means we finally get our day off again?” Now that they’ve spent most of the day together, Aramis feels rather bereft at the thought of heading home without Porthos. “I don’t suppose you might like to come to my place? I’ll even cook dinner.”

“How’d you know the way to my heart’s through my stomach?”

“Lucky guess,” Aramis deadpans, saluting Adans as they leave. He makes sure that Adans is watching when Aramis presses his hand to Porthos’ firm buttocks, letting it linger there as they depart the country club, leaving behind their false story, but coming out of it with a promising future. 

**

“Do you want a beer?” Aramis offers as he unlocks the door to his apartment, stripping out of the ridiculous layers he’s wearing until he’s down to only the button-down. Even that is quickly exchanged for a black tank top, ducking back out once he’s yanked his belt and socks off, feeling freer to wander his place in jeans and the tank.

Porthos, obviously, has nothing to change into, but once the sash is disposed of, he seems plenty comfortable in the Henley. 

“Sure, why not,” Porthos agrees. “Any more news from Athos?”

“Bonnaire’s in the interrogation room with Anne, poor sod.” There’s a reason she’s earned the nickname ‘Milady of Menace’ and it has a lot to do with the fact that she can scare a man into confessing within thirty minutes. Apparently, with Bonnaire, it’s taken ten given the last text. “I miss the days when criminals held out. It made it more interesting.”

Porthos settles into one of Aramis’ kitchen stools. “You mean, you wish he’d held out so you didn’t owe Athos money in the bet?”

“Twenty Euros,” Aramis complains, handing Porthos a bottle of beer once the cap has been pried off. It’s only when he stretches his hand out that he notices he’s yet to take his ring off. Neither has Porthos. He wonders how to do this without being too awkward and settles for dispensing of the beer caps while sliding the ring into his pocket while he’s crouched by the cabinets. 

When he rights himself, Porthos has removed his and has settled it on the granite countertop. Their wires had been taken off as quickly as possible on the way home, so whatever is said between them will remain that way.

“It’s been a long day,” Aramis says, when the silence begins to march on towards the uncomfortable.

Porthos nods considerately. “Not a bad one, though.”

“No, it hasn’t been,” Aramis agrees. “You know, for all that my feelings for Anne and Marsac were very serious, the relationships always had more of a casual feeling to them. I don’t even know how one would define serious.”

“For me, it’s about giving it a proper go. Monogamy,” he says, which isn’t up for negotiations, judging from Porthos’ expression. “Now, that’s required. Apart from that, I’d say it’s just knowing that the relationship isn’t going to be purely about sex or three AM phone calls because you’re horny.”

“Not devoid of them, though?” Aramis checks. “From what I recall, I like the positions you get into at three AM.”

Porthos shrugs, a charming grin on his face that says he’s not entirely blind to the things one can do with the positions Porthos is capable of getting into. “Aramis,” he says gently, rather than continue on with the teasing. “If you want to give this a shot, I’m genuinely, absolutely, whole-fucking-heartedly willing to date you. You’re practically perfect.”

“Don’t make me sound like Mary Poppins when I’m getting ready to maul you,” Aramis replies, affronted at the notion of himself in petticoats and a parasol. He watches the way Porthos fingers are wrapped around the bottle of beer and feels strangely bereft that those fingers aren’t on him. 

He knows that the both of them ought to turn in. Exhaustion has begun nipping at Aramis’ heels, but he wants to have this conversation because there’s no scenario in his mind that doesn’t end unless Porthos winds up in that bed with him. 

“I’d like to try a real relationship,” Aramis says, knowing that the words are something like a magic symbol and that they need to be said. “You and I.”

“I hope it’s you and I, otherwise there’s someone I have to be very jealous of,” Porthos replies, tipping his head back to drink his beer, which gives Aramis a very nice view of his neck. He licks the suds of beer from off his lower lip and it takes every ounce of Aramis’ concentration not to jump him.

And then it hits him.

It strikes him what this is all going to mean. 

This isn’t some arrangement for casual sex or friends with benefits. This is the first real relationship Aramis will have since Marsac and he’s genuinely not sure what to feel about that. Relieved, perhaps, that Marsac hadn’t doomed him for life. Wary, of course, that things will become a mess and work will become complicated. Above all things, however, Aramis feels genuinely pleased because he hasn’t met anyone like Porthos in a very long time and he has Porthos, now, in every way he’s been dreaming about since they met. 

Aramis finishes his beer as quickly as he can without guaranteeing him the pain of the bloating of beer. He slides the beer to the side and slides over the counter with his arse helping him glide, ending up standing inches away from Porthos, who has widened his legs to give Aramis the ability to step inside, cupping Porthos’ cheek with glee and a gentle hand. 

“Can I?”

“Are you going to ask for permission every time before you kiss me?” Porthos asks breathlessly, his lashes lowered while his gaze slides towards Aramis’ lips.

Aramis shrugs his shoulders casually, as if he’s still got to debate whether he will ask for permission.

It’s actually not entirely a bad idea. He’d like to be the one to find out how Porthos reacts to being called ‘sir’, to Aramis being subservient and obedient to a fault. Still, that’s a conversation and an exploration for another day. Right now, Aramis is occupied with draping his arms around Porthos’ neck, hovering inches away from his lips. 

“I’m waiting,” he teases softly, Aramis’ warm breath sliding over Porthos’ neck.

“Permission?”

Aramis nods. “You have to say it before I kiss you.”

“I suppose you can kiss me, so long as you make it good,” Porthos says considerately, unable to stop himself from grinning like a madman. Aramis would like to imagine that he’s the one who’s caused such a good mood in Porthos.

Aramis raises his brow and leans in closer, kissing Porthos while threading his fingers into those glorious curls, the happy sheen of his hair always beckoning Aramis’ attention. He grabs on harder when Porthos makes a sweet, sinful noise in the back of his throat and it makes Aramis abandon the pretense of gentleness, kissing Porthos with vigour and fury and passion and desperation, coaxing Porthos’ lips open so he can slide his tongue in, tugging Porthos’ lower lip as he slides back, a hazy look on his face.

“Good enough for you?” Aramis asks breathlessly, sagging against Porthos’ chest and tightening the grip of his arms around Porthos’ shoulders.

His reply isn’t in words, but rather the strength of Porthos’ arms as he lifts Aramis up from the ground, while Aramis flails desperately to get his thighs around Porthos’ waist, lest he fall to the ground. It would put quite the damper on the romantic mood. He makes a small sound of affront, but that quickly turns into a breathless laugh as he tips his head to the side and lets his mouth do less laughing and more kissing, bent over while Porthos brings them into the bedroom as if Aramis weighs nothing at all.

He’s known this about Porthos since the day they met. It’s actually fairly incredible that they’re living some of Aramis’ earliest fantasies so quickly.

Porthos eases Aramis to the bed, stripping him of the remaining clothes on his body until he’s left in nothing but tight boxer-briefs, writhing on the bed to get comfortable while watching Porthos. 

“Come on,” Aramis coaxes. “Take it all off, my dear.”

Porthos chews the inside of his cheek, but his grin is no less delighted. He slides both hands into his pants, slowly sliding the zipper of his pants down, bent in half before stepping out of them. He crosses his arms and pulls the hem of his shirt, tugging until it’s flicked to the side of Aramis’ bedroom. Aramis lets his gaze roam freely over Porthos’ body, one hand propped beneath his head as he watches Porthos turn, sliding his toes up the inside of his thigh, then higher across the thigh until the press of his toes are on the outside of his hip, and then impossibly higher to hook his big toe into his briefs, pushing them down. 

Once they’re at his knees, he lets his hand do the rest of the work, but Aramis is beyond aroused, so painfully hard that it hurts. The flexibility in that tree of a man is criminal, he’s sure.

Aramis reaches over for the lube and the condoms, opening up the wrapper as he crawls onto his hands and knees towards Porthos, shoving Porthos’ briefs down, wrapping his mouth around Porthos’ cock on his way back up.

He grins with smug delight, securing the condom around his lips as he takes his time pushing the condom onto Porthos’ cock, grinning as he seals his lips around the condom and rolling it over Porthos’ cock while deep-throating him at the same time.

He’ll teach Porthos to accuse him of lacking invention in bed.

Porthos’ head is tipped backwards, swallowing as a bead of sweat begins to trail down Porthos’ throat and Aramis cannot let that happen without doing something about it. He backs off, rising to his knees to brush a kiss over Porthos’ collarbone, licking the trail of sweat as he does. Aramis snugly secures himself against Porthos’ torso while he slides his hands down Porthos’ neck to grab his arse.

“You are going to press me onto this bed,” Aramis informs Porthos, sucking a kiss into Porthos’ neck just below his earlobe. 

When Porthos makes a move to speak, Aramis silences him with a swift kiss.

“No, no,” he cuts him off. “You’re following my orders tonight,” Aramis says, pushing his thumbs into his boxers and pushing them down so that he and Porthos are on even ground. “You’re going to push me face-down into the bed and you are going to fill me up until I’m shouting for some sort of release.”

There’s a hint of disappointment on Porthos’ face that makes Aramis feel vaguely like he’s crushed his dreams. It’s enough to give Porthos a chance to interject. “It’s only that,” Porthos says, with a shrug, “I wanted to see your face while we did this.”

“How about we save that for round two?” Aramis suggests, grinning when Porthos seems to agree to the terms, giving him a shove at Aramis’ shoulders to get him against the bed. From there, it’s back to being manhandled as Porthos grabs at his hips and presses him, stomach-first, onto the bed, sliding a hand between Aramis and the covers to wrap around his cock as he grasps at the lube. “Three fingers, please,” he requests, as politely as he can. “I’d hardly want to be unprepared.”

“Gorgeous and complimentary,” Porthos muses, stroking Aramis and circling the rough pad of his thumb against Aramis’ balls. “Honest, I have no idea how you’re single.”

“Fate?”

Porthos’ chuckle is low and warms Aramis’ whole body, keeping him calm while he keeps his forehead resting against his palm, allowing Porthos to slick him up with his fingers, steady breaths carrying him through the stretch and push. It’s been a little while, but the anticipation builds in the most delectable of ways. 

Soon, his body is on edge and the hairs on his arms are sticking up, the odd shiver catching him unaware as he finds himself bucking back into Porthos’ fingers, thrusting forward into his hand, a slight shake rolling through his words when he begins to beg. “I think you’ve made your point,” Aramis gets out, breathlessly, when Porthos continues with his steady and sure preparations. “Porthos…”

“I’m gonna take care of you,” Porthos says firmly, sliding his hand up Aramis’ cock and pressing it against his stomach for a brief moment as if to reassure him, before he goes back to teasing him in so many small ways.

He had asked to beg. Aramis reminds himself of his own words, only moments ago. Now, he wonders how he could be such an idiot, body shaking at each small touch that never leads as far as he wants it to go. When Porthos spends another full minute with his fingers inside and around Aramis, his patience cannot take it any longer. 

“Enough!” he snaps, on the edge of breaking down. “Porthos, for the love of God, fuck me!”

“Now you sound interested,” Porthos murmurs, brushing kisses down Aramis neck. He slides his fingers out and Aramis, so used to being full up of them, lets out an aching moan, bereft as he misses them. 

He doesn’t have to be upset for very long because no sooner than Porthos slides his fingers out does he replace them with his cock. Aramis is rather grateful for all the time spent preparing him _now_ of course, but it cannot go back in time and undo the impatience then, so he merely lets out a ragged sigh of pleasured relief, choked sobs escaping when every thrust and stroke that Porthos gives, showing that he has absolutely no trouble being in control.

Aramis can only hope he’s just as good with having it taken away.

Round two, after all, is when Aramis plans to see whether his fantasy of sixty-nining while Porthos remains in a yoga position can become a reality. Eventually, too, Aramis would very much like to fuck his boyfriend.

That’s a funny thought. He can’t even hold back his breathless laughter and it manages to coax Porthos to start thrusting harder. “Something funny?”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Aramis says the words like they’re honestly something he’s never thought to say before. Porthos slides his hand over Aramis’ cock again and, honestly, Aramis thinks it’s a miracle he’s held out this long. Now, though, choking on his own bedsheets, filled up with Porthos’ cock, and being attended to thoroughly, every moment is a struggle not to come.

After all, he did say he’d ask for permission.

“Please,” he gasps. “Porthos, my God, please let me come.” His profanities turn guttural, interspersed with Spanish, and if it isn’t Porthos’ hand, then Aramis will find friction in the bedsheets. 

It seems he won’t have to.

“Yes,” Porthos breathes out the word, brushing a soft kiss against Aramis’ neck. “Aramis, come.”

He calls out Porthos’ name in a strangled, desperate attempt at proper language, but it falls utterly short, though Porthos doesn’t seem to mind. Aramis comes so hard that his body trembles and it robs him of many of his initial ideas as to how he would repay Porthos. He babbles softly, letting out soft little noises, eventually letting Porthos grasp him hard by the hips, sliding him onto his back.

“Good?” Porthos murmurs softly.

Aramis nods, staring at Porthos’ still hard cock, weakly gesturing towards him as he feebly tries to get his bearings back under him to help out with that. Porthos bats him back, shaking his head as he settles on his knees while Aramis wiggles his way back and gets comfortable on the bed. He wants to do something, but he’s lazily happy to accept watching Porthos as he starts to rock into the bed, knees digging deep into the sheets while he brings himself off.

Porthos tips his neck backwards, breathing out Aramis’ name in a barely audible whisper, coming all over his stomach. 

Aramis summons all his energy and crawls forward to pin Porthos to the bed, nuzzling his way down until he can lick Porthos clean, wide-mouthed kisses following each swipe of his tongue. He could live here, he decides, and do nothing but constantly trace the lines of Porthos’ body with his mouth, make him feel as heavenly as Aramis feels right now.

Bottomed out, blissful, and like he’s managed to steal the most wonderful man in the world out from under them. 

Aramis fumbles to get Porthos to join him at the head of the bed, not bothering to pull the sheets above them, finding his way into a safe spot curled into Porthos’ arms, sliding his fingers over Porthos’ arm up and down with slow, steady strokes. He lets Porthos tuck his head in against Aramis’ shoulder.

“Round two?” Aramis reminds Porthos.

“After a bit of sleep,” Porthos replies, shifting onto his side so his arms can bracket Aramis and keep him secure. “Maybe even a whole night’s sleep,” he confesses. “I’m not exactly as young as I used to be.” 

Aramis has allowed his eyes to droop down to the point that sleep is inevitable, despite all the wonderful fantasies that have invaded his mind and that he’s allowed to burst through, especially now that he has a _boyfriend_. His sleepy smile is giddy and he mouths the word one more time into Porthos’ hair, sighing happily as he tugs at the sheet to cover them up and keep them both protected.

“We’ve got time,” Aramis finally says with a blissful smile, and that’s the last of it before he finds out that Porthos mumbles in his sleep, doesn’t twitch very much, and holds tight to Aramis as though if he lets him go, he might run away.

It’s the most perfect thing in the world.

**

The crick in Aramis’ neck might very well be permanent.

He’s been palming at the distressing ache since they left the studio -- Porthos at his side, Aramis’ stolen pink yoga mat under his arm – and he thoroughly blames it on the fact that Porthos has recently discovered partners yoga and has dragged Aramis along with him, refusing to hear a single word spoken about the fact that Aramis is, in no way, suited for that level of expertise.

Honestly, he’s probably curved his spine as a result of this madness.

They’ve been together for four months, now, and every moment of it has been thrilling for Aramis. Everything is new, again, and despite the downs that go along with any ups that all relationships have, Aramis feels different in this one. He feels settled and secure. He feels like he already knows this one isn’t going anywhere and neither is he.

“Next time, I bottom, please?”

Porthos smirks at him. “I should take you to partners yoga more often if that’s the kind of nice things you say to me when we’re done,” he teases with a smirk, reaching over to push Aramis’ hand out of the way, taking over with a deep-kneading massage as they continue walking towards the station for their assignment.

“It’s far easier to be the one on the bottom rather than dangling in the air!”

“You think you could take all of me?”

Aramis’ stomach swoops with delighted pleasure at the double implication of such an innocuous comment. He chuckles fondly as he claps a hand at the small of Porthos’ back to steer them along, aware that they’ve wasted any chance for a secret assignation when they went to the morning yoga session instead of staying home and exploring other positions together.

“I know I can,” Aramis replies, confident in that much.

He presses a fond kiss to Porthos’ cheek as they ride the elevator into the station, where Anne and d’Artagnan await with clothes and props, dragging the both of them away as soon as their feet hit the linoleum floor.

“Porthos, you’re going to be the TA at the university,” Anne explains, shoving a tweed jacket and a faded, dirty t-shirt into his hands, sliding a pair of dark frames on his face. “Go on, get changed, I’ve got corduroys for you.”

He throws Aramis a desperate plea of help in a single look, but Aramis is far too lost in the image of what Porthos looks like in glasses to be able to do any good. Besides that, d’Artagnan is briefing him on his own role – a student in the arts, apparently who wears shirts that don’t quite cover very much at all. “And,” d’Artagnan says wryly, “you are currently going to infiltrate your way into the assistants’ lounge by way of Porthos. The two of you will be found in a delicate position while you take photos of Marc Lebeau, the philosophy professor suspected of distributing narcotics to his students…”

He goes on and on, but Aramis stands still and lets the story and the clothes and his whole new life flow around him. The crick in his neck is doomed to linger through this whole assignment, but what it’s really done is given him incentive to get some sort of revenge.

He grasps his tote bag and books from d’Artagnan, a sure and steady look on his face.

“Are you sure you’ve got all that?”

Aramis cocks his head to the side, judging d’Artagnan for even bothering to question him. “Drape myself over Porthos in order to stop crime? I can’t believe I get paid for this.”

“Trust me,” Athos deadpans, from where he’s come to press the camera into Aramis’ hands. “Neither do we.”

“Jealous,” Aramis taunts.

“Quite,” Athos concurs, giving Aramis a nudge in the direction of the door. “Be good and the next undercover assignment will see Porthos shirtless.”

And really, what better reason could Aramis have to behave than that? “Thank you for the reminder as to why I’m doing this,” he says, giving the boys a slight salute as he wanders off to do his job and get extremely lucky in the process.


	2. The Ice Storm of '14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Anne fighting is nothing new. Porthos and Aramis fighting at the same time is enough to make d'Artagnan wish he could take a long vacation in a place far, far away.

The office has been a veritable war zone for the last week. Athos and Anne often give people a reason to run for their desks, but ever since Wednesday of last week, Porthos and Aramis have been competing for the title of ‘most frustrating coworkers’. Worse than that, it’s as if Athos and Anne have doubled their grievances as if to compete.

It has left d’Artagnan utterly bereft and dismal for his chances of surviving the day unscathed. Already, he’s been bruised from Porthos slamming a palm into his chest to try and get him to take his side against Aramis.

“No,” d’Artagnan says clearly, walking off with his files only to walk straight into Athos, who is contemplating d’Artagnan as if a piece of meat. “Extra no,” he clarifies. “The next person who tries to get me to take a side in this _stupid_ war is entertaining Constance and I on our anniversary!”

He receives four equal glares for the comment, but it seems to do the trick.

He’s not sure what’s happened, but he is sure that the office has become a warzone and he’d forgotten to pack a flak jacket. Eventually, he takes respite in the only sane place in the office, realizing too late that it also belongs to his boss. 

Treville regards d’Artagnan with vague amusement as he files his paperwork, gesturing to the main area with one of the file folders. “You know, it’s beginning to remind me of a situation I once saw while I was in the Middle East. Of course,” Treville notes, “it was far more civil there.”

“When is it going to end?” d’Artagnan wonders.

“Athos, I will cut your balls off!” shouts Anne and the sound of furniture shuffling and things crashing to the floor make d’Artagnan press his lips together, all hopes of things returning to a normal balance fading into the wind.

“You’re sure there are no long-term undercover assignments?” he asks hopefully.

Treville snorts with incredulity. “If there are, I’m taking it. I’m almost out of files to put away and at some point today, I will have to leave the office.”

Outside, several phones hit the floor and d’Artagnan wonders how far down the jump from the window would harm him. It’s not as if three stories would cause any permanent kind of damage. Right? Of course, Constance may want him to have full use of his arms and legs through the next few months, so he abandons that hopeful idea and turns back around. 

“Maybe I’ll get lucky,” he says weakly. “I could be shot and slip into a medical coma until this all blows over.”

“There’s the spirit,” Treville sounds. “Back into the lion’s den, with you.”

The lions looked remarkably like his friends today, but d’Artagnan did his best to put a smile on his face and try and forget about how much they all looked like they wanted to devour him whole.

**

“What is it with you and her?” Aramis asks blearily, when the courage of two shots of tequila and three beers have sent him past the good sense that has always told him not to interfere into Athos and Anne’s personal life, lest he lose a finger (or worse). The frosty chill between Athos and Anne had almost been easing into spring, then suddenly, a cold snap to make the meteorologists fear had descended upon them.

Athos stares into his fifth cup of wine, swaying slightly in his seat. “I slept with her.”

“Yes, I’m glad your vivid memory can recall five years of marriage,” Aramis replies sarcastically, lifting his beer in salute to Athos. “Congratulations, you don’t have dementia yet, despite acting like a grumpy eighty-year-old most of the time.”

“No,” Athos sighs patiently. “I slept with her last week.”

Aramis gapes at him, the drink helping him along with his shock. “You did what?” he hisses, voice a mix of giddy disbelief and horror. “Athos, I thought you knew better than that. Despite what you’ve said about the sex being earth-shattering, you also know that it always ends poorly. Case in point!”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Athos retorts. “I’d rather discuss why you’re currently sleeping on my couch. Has the honeymoon truly ended?”

Aramis makes a face, raising his hand for another few shots of tequila, believing that it will be far easier to discuss this when he’s drunk and doesn’t care what he’s saying. He takes them both in quick succession, gasping past the burn and wishing that he wasn’t so cross with Porthos, because body shots would be an incredible thing. 

“He disagrees with me.”

“That is, typically, what starts a fight. What was the subject?”

“I want to move in together. Porthos thinks five months is too fast,” Aramis replies. “It devolved into an argument in which I was accused of flirtation, he was accused of jealousy, and ended with him insisting I was the last man on earth he’d want to live with.” He nods his head, as if to say ‘there’, as if to inform Athos that his grievance trumped sleeping with one’s ex-wife. “And I didn’t even get mattress-breaking sex out of it.”

“It wasn’t the mattress,” Athos informs him. “It was the desk.”

“I hate you.” Aramis scowls, wishing that he had more friends or Porthos. Why can’t he drink with Porthos if they’re in a fight? This doesn’t seem very fair to him. Why is he suffering twiceover for wanting to take the next step in his relationship? He lets out a drunkenly-maudlin sigh, aware that he had said truly awful things in the ensuing fight, but his core intentions had been and remain good.

Athos orders another round for them, serving as an excellent friend when he also pays for it. 

“What are you going to do?” Athos asks. 

Aramis shrugs. “Try and attempt to grovel for what I’ve said without taking back what I want? It’s a fine line.” He refuses to admit he’s wrong about the fact that moving in together makes _sense_ , but perhaps he shouldn’t have accused Porthos of being so insecure with himself that every action of Aramis’ instills jealousy. 

Truth be told, he’d deserved that icy glare.

He’d extra deserved that punch when Aramis had brought Porthos’ upbringing into it, commenting that perhaps the lack of proper parents had led to this.

“What about you?” Aramis wonders. “It’s a matter of time before Porthos and I iron things out, I have faith in that. You and Anne, though…”

Athos draws in a deep breath, a troubled look on his face.

“Are you thinking of getting back together?”

“The fact that she stole my best jacket and set it alight days after we had sex indicates no,” Athos deadpans. “Perhaps it’s time she and I finally went in for that counseling that Treville has always suggested.”

“Mandated, Athos,” Aramis warmly corrects him, faintly amused at the attempt to make his own history up. “He mandated it and the both of you have used your combined skills in terror to avoid it. Besides, can it really be so bad? Madame de Larroque is a lovely woman,” Aramis says. “And she does know the mind, very well. A year ago, I’d also say she could get to know my body, but even in a fight, I’m not stupid enough to think Porthos won’t find out about it.”

“I hate therapy,” Athos grumbles.

“You hate lots of things,” Aramis drunkenly says. “You hate Anne and you slept with her. Who knows? Maybe therapy will do you well.” Privately, Aramis thinks it would be a long time coming and _extremely_ necessary, but he has too much care for his neck to say such things aloud.

“I believe we need more wine.”

Well, perhaps the topic of therapy was best saved for another day. It’s hardly as if Aramis had half a whit of sense to advocate it right now when his only concern is getting so drunk he forgets the hurt look he’d caused on Porthos’ face.

**

“I don’t understand.”

Anne had dug deep into her cellars as soon as Porthos had called, finding her best red in order to drink his pain away. Her pain was a slow and measured thing that she learned how to nurse. They would get to her pain. Porthos, however, was in a fight with Aramis for the first time that couldn’t be resolved by one party (or both) getting naked. Porthos was sulking over the glass with moderation, which made Anne all the happier to share it with him.

It meant there might be some left, later.

“You love him, you’ve said that many times. Why are you so adamant against moving in with him?”

“You remember that job we did together, you and I? The undercover one back in ’06?”

“The one where we pretended to be a married couple for a month. Yes, I still have the apron,” she replies evenly. “So?”

“You were always on me, then, about how shit I was to live with. That I was messy and that even though I could cook, I never cleaned up after myself. You said I hogged the covers and I snored…”

This had clearly been weighing on Porthos’ mind for some time, now. Anne should have felt guilty about the fact that her words were sitting so heavily in his mind, but she thought he ought to grow up a little and take responsibility for his own fears because they certainly didn’t come from her.

“We were forced to live together for a month, Porthos, I was going to complain about something,” she points out. “You were an easy target.”

“Maybe.” Porthos drains back his whole glass of wine in a matter of seconds, the liquid staining his lips red. “What if it’s true, though? What if I’m shit to live with and Aramis finds out? We’re good, now, we’re fine. Why can’t we ease into living together and that way it doesn’t go all…” He inhales sharply, distress evident on his face. “I said things, Anne. Bad things.”

She held a record for saying horrible things, so it was intriguing to hear someone else trying to compete.

“Try me,” she insists.

“I implied he was a whore with his affections.”

“You certainly did learn from the best. Even I never said anything so cruel to Athos until at least a year into the divorce.”

Porthos looks at her, narrowing his eyes. Perhaps it was a mistake to mention Athos, because it seems as if Porthos is following a train of thought right to where he’d stowed it away and Anne knows there’s no way to escape. Best to have it out in the open, she supposes. Porthos will stew in his guilt over Aramis for some time, he knows that.

“Why are you and Athos acting like the divorce came in yesterday, all of a sudden?”

Anne brushes her fingers over the scar on her neck that’s always plagued her when it rains, a garroting scar from a mission she and Athos had been on when Athos hadn’t been there in time to save her. Married couples can certainly work well together, but after that, their trust in each other had begun to erode and eventually, neither of them knew why they were still in the marriage.

And then nights like last week happened.

“You know how I absolutely hate Chardonnay,” Anne says, settling into the chair besides Porthos. “I find it dry and weak and cutting on the tongue. I think it is a pale imitation of better wines and my time is better suited elsewhere.”

Porthos seems confused, but willing to go along with it. “…Yeah?”

“I slept with Athos.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Athos is like the Chardonnay.”

“Am I drunk?” Porthos wonders. “Or are you not making any sense whatsoever?” There’s a look on his face that implies he already knows the answer to that question.

“Just because I don’t like Chardonnay doesn’t mean I can’t take it to bed, pass out, and regret it in the morning,” she says. “Last Wednesday after he walked me home in the rainstorm.” She drains the last of her wine, refills her cup, and does it all over again. She inhales deeply and gives Porthos an expectant look. “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me that I was stupid?”

“You already know,” Porthos replies. “Besides, I’m taking up all the stupid not wanting to move in with Aramis because I’m scared it’ll go bad, when really, the only reason it’ll go bad is because I’m scared.”

“You’re far too wise when you’re drunk,” Anne says. “Drink some more, let’s fix that.”

“My pleasure.”

**

At nine the next morning, the office is a sanctity of quiet when d’Artagnan enters. No one is throwing objects at each other, nothing is on fire, and no swords have been borrowed from medieval museums to make a point. He sets his cup of coffee down, taking in his four companions in their various states of disarray.

Aramis is slumped in his seat, sunglasses on his face, and is most certainly asleep.

Athos’ wide-brimmed hat is tipped low, his fidgeting fingers smoothing over the same paper constantly, and his eyes so rimmed with red that d’Artagnan winces to look at him.

Anne is clad in clothes that are ill-fitting, has the world’s largest cup of coffee that he’s ever seen, and has a pale wash to her skin that makes her seem as if she’s seen a ghost.

And then there’s Porthos. 

“Why do you look so…alive?”

“Good constitution,” Porthos replies cheerfully and for every ounce of cheer in his voice, he receives equal glares (and a snore from Aramis) from his compatriots. He flashes d’Artagnan a brief smile, digging something out of his pocket. “I’m a bit tired, though. I was up all night trying to find a twenty-four hour hardware place.” He slides off his desk and wanders over to Aramis’, nudging his foot with his boot, which startles Aramis awake.

“ _En garde_ ,” Aramis frantically protests, before peering up over the rim of his sunglasses. “I wasn’t asleep. I was ready.”

Porthos unearths a single copper key from his pocket and holds it up, pressing it into Aramis’ palm. “Don’t think this means you’re forgiven. You may have the key to my place, but you’re still sleeping on my couch.”

Aramis chides Porthos as a sleepy smile builds on his lips. 

“What?”

“Our couch,” Aramis corrects, folding his fingers over the key with great reverence. He lets out a breath that is the most relieved thing d’Artagnan’s heard in years. 

The tension seems to bleed out of the room after that. Anne and Athos are still exchanging tense glances, but the good news has taken the worst out of things and d’Artagnan is so happy that he could kiss someone. Not that any of the candidates in the room could compare to Constance, but it’s been that rough of a few days that he briefly considers it. 

“I suppose I can cancel my appointment with the psych ward. Pity,” d’Artagnan murmurs. “I’d been looking forward to the peace and quiet.”

“You’ll have to wait a little longer,” Treville calls from the door of his office. “I’ve got a job. For all of you, so shake off the hangovers and get in here. You’ve got work to do.”

Porthos helps to haul Aramis to his feet while Athos gives Anne a wide berth and d’Artagnan follows in their wake, knowing that things might have been bumpy for a while, but he has faith they’ll always work it out. Mostly because, really, he absolutely has no idea what he’d do if they didn’t.

He hasn’t got any better skills than this, after all. 

“Fair warning,” says Porthos to Aramis as they take the last steps into Treville’s office. “I’m a messy roommate with space issues and I’m stubborn about things being my way.”

“What a coincidence,” Aramis says happily. “I am, as well.”

Or, thinks d’Artagnan, maybe he ought to start expecting this to happen more often.

Maybe it’s time for a vacation.


	3. The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The office is shaken up when word of a traitor in their midst begins to circle after a shipment of diamonds is stolen on their way to the Louvre. At the very same time, Armand Richelieu leaves Tréville and it is too much of a coincidence to ignore.

The office had been in freefall since Monday.

First, their very secure information had been compromised and several local crime affiliates had known about the shipment of diamonds going into the Louvre for display. Second, Tréville had locked himself in his office, but the canny ear could grasp him cursing and biting out angry profanities in many languages. It would be too simple to think the two were related, but it was the going theory around the office.

“They’re not,” Athos says as though he knows something about it, from where he’s perched from Aramis’ desk. D’Artagnan and Anne have rolled their chairs over and Porthos rests comfortably balanced on Aramis’ thigh. “Related, that is,” he adds, when Anne opens her mouth to make a remark as to the stupidity of his claim. “The man he’s been seeing vanished on Sunday.”

“Armand?” Aramis clarifies, brow furrowed. “I thought they’d been together three years.”

“They had,” Athos confirms. “The timing is rather suspect, of course, but given Tréville’s workaholic tendencies, it might be no wonder the man finally broke.”

“Shame,” Porthos says, his attention on Tréville’s pacing figure in the office. “I liked seeing him happy. He deserved it.”

Aramis grins up at his boyfriend with that stupidly love-sick expression that Athos has coined as ‘two drops away from making me want to puke into that bucket’, but he pays little mind to it. He steadies his hat on his head, offering Porthos an expectant look. “Come along,” he says curtly. “We’ve got our work cut out for us and if we stay a moment longer, Aramis is going to get you both suspended for indecent acts.”

Aramis levels Athos with a sharp look. “Why is it always me that’s accused of indecent acts? You all think Porthos is so very innocent and you’ve all been thoroughly deceived.”

Athos glances to Porthos, whose response has been to react with innocence and confusion.

Rather like a puppy, in fact.

“He looks devoid of sin to me,” Athos says. “It must be you.”

Aramis scowls, but even that is a show as he shares a mischievous grin with Porthos. Athos does not want to know what they are conspiring to do, but he immediately makes set plans to be very far away from them after the work day is done. Aramis winds his fingers into Porthos’ collar to draw him closer for a filthy kiss that Athos hasn’t seen outside of porn and given his tenuous relationship with adult videos, it’s been some time.

Anne seems to have no trouble watching as though it’s her private show. 

What it means is that Porthos will be flushed and distracted for the first while of their journey. “I suppose that means I’m driving,” Athos says, taking up the keys in order to hustle Porthos onwards. “Aramis, Anne…”

“We know,” she cuts him off. “We’ll look into the security footage and any potential leak. I’ll get d’Artagnan to start questioning people for alibis, including ourselves,” she says, holding Athos’ stare for a long moment.

He’s never been sure whether he could trust her, not after the divorce, and an icy sensation settles in his stomach as he thinks of the awful possibility that the leak might have come from someone in this very office. It might even have come from someone he trusts. Perhaps Porthos was offered a great sum of money, perhaps Aramis was threatened with Porthos’ life, and perhaps Anne simply saw the opportunity. 

Perhaps Athos shouldn’t trust anyone.

Wonderful. He hadn’t expected to have to deal with treachery today.

* * *

Anne knocks on Tréville’s door lightly, not waiting for permission to enter. He looks horrible when she walks in and she’s never held that much tact to lie about that fact, nor give him space and come back when he seems better healed. Pad of paper in hand, she gestures to him. “Athos wants statements,” she says, taking the seat opposite him. “I need to take down a record of everyone you’ve spoken to recently.”

Tréville’s answering look is cold, but Anne’s blood went chilled a very long time ago and she feels nothing for the sudden frost in his attitude towards her. 

“This is hardly necessary.”

“I had to do it with a skittish d’Artagnan while he questioned my whereabouts and whether I’ve been in contact with old friends,” Anne says. “You can do it for me. Tell me who you’ve been speaking to lately, who’s had access to your office, and clear your name,” she coaxes. “Jean, if you’ve nothing to worry about, then this will be quick.”

The silence is its own answer.

She had always wondered if Athos had thought her criminal history made her into an inevitable traitor. Perhaps, unkindly, he had thought the same of Porthos. She doesn’t know that Athos would ever question such things if he were in this room with her, regarding the guilty look on Tréville’s face. She sets the paper aside and gives him a kinder look, though she has not been very kind to anyone in years. 

“What is it?”

“I believe this may be my fault.”

She shakes her head, leaning forward to rest her palms on his desk. “Surely not intentionally. _Never_ intentionally,” she swears, because she knows their Captain and while she might lurk in the shadows when things require shady doings, Tréville only does them to justify the end. He would never actively hurt someone, especially not his team.

“I think Armand is the Cardinal,” Tréville says. “The timing is suspect, the reports are damning,” he spits out. “All this time, I never saw it. I never saw him for what he was.” 

She tries to picture Armand, Tréville’s suave and silver-tongued boyfriend as the Cardinal. She’s ashamed to say that within moments of putting the pieces together, she can see it as easily as if it had been under her nose the entire time. She supposes it has. He’s been hiding here, making his ploys and plans, siphoning off knowledge while posing as Tréville’s boyfriend. She wonders if Armand had ever felt guilty for it, if he had ever thought of stopping for the man before her.

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have,” Tréville hisses. “Don’t you see? I let it slip to Armand about the diamonds. I told him everything! I’ve been telling him everything for years.”

Anne knows the guilt that must be plaguing a man like Tréville. She had spent the teenage years of her life making terrible choices, but then she had met Athos and had done her best to improve herself. That hadn’t worked after the incident with Thomas, but she’d still done morally grey things once she had tried on reform like a comfortable pair of shackles. She knows when someone has been like her and she knows when someone is so righteous and so good that they would never consider that sort of wrongdoing. 

“It’s not your fault,” Anne says, jotting down notes that would have to go to Athos later. Even with suspicions only, they could bring Armand in for questioning. If he truly was the Cardinal, the chances of him being arrested were utterly slim, but they could try.

Tréville rubs at his face, looking exhausted and three times his age.

“No? Tell that to the museum. Tell that to the others. As far as I’m concerned, until Armand is brought in, this is my fault.” He dismisses her with a wave. “Go after him. You have my leave to do whatever you need to, but don’t get caught.”

“Alone?”

“Take Porthos if you need help.”

It’s as close as she’ll get to him signing off on her doing those morally ambiguous things again, but she thinks that for Tréville and in this case, she’s not going to betray that trust. After all, she wouldn’t know how to explain it to him and Anne’s grown slightly fond of the man, against all her better judgment and her survival instincts.

“Get some rest,” she insists. 

“When this is put to bed.” 

Anne leaves the office and stops at her desk to pick up the things she keeps in the only locked drawer in the whole desk. She won’t take Porthos for this. Perhaps years ago, when they were under different roofs, she might have called him up for the favour, but he has Aramis now and while she finds their relationship occasionally sickening, she knows well enough not to break it up because it’s the first time Porthos has been so happy rather than merely content.

Sliding her slim pistol into her ankle holster, she rights herself to find d’Artagnan regarding her with a knowing look on his face.

“No,” she says. 

“I haven’t even said anything!”

“You’re about to ask to come with me,” she says. “And the places I’m about to go don’t suit a man like you very well.” She finds the stash of Euros in the bottom drawer as well, tucking the envelope of unmarked bills into her bra. “Stay here. Wait for my call. I’ll get us to Armand whether he’s the cardinal or not. And if he is…”

The sharp smile on her face says everything.

If he is, then he is going to get every ounce of pain he’s in for.

* * *

It’s half past midnight when Porthos trudges into his apartment. 

He’s been meaning to think about Aramis’ offer to move in, again, but he’s too exhausted tonight and everything that’s been happening with Tréville and the rumours that the Cardinal is his ex-boyfriend make him wonder how long Tréville had trusted the man who shared his bed without knowing or even suspecting.

Porthos knows he ought to be wary, himself, but Aramis has never given him any cause to doubt and even if Aramis were a seasoned criminal, he’d still have some ways to go before he catches up to Porthos’ own actions.

He pries off his boots, staring at the kitchen in confusion. The smell of pasta and sauce wafts out from the stove and Porthos hadn’t put anything on when he’d left. He rounds the corner and finds Aramis in his bare feet, stirring the pot. “Athos texted and said you were on your way,” Aramis says, gesturing to the table. “I’m almost done. You must be starved, the two of you were out there for hours today.”

“Starved,” Porthos agrees wearily, sinking down into the chair. “Aching. Hungry. We ran down pavement for hours and I had to head down into the alleys to talk to the kinds of lowlifes I haven’t worked with in years,” he complains, prying his boots off to rub at his feet. “All we got? All that we got is that the Cardinal is behind the diamond heist, but he used enough people between him and the job that connecting him is next to impossible.”

Aramis flips off the stove, portioning a large amount of pasta into a bowl for Porthos before joining him in his lap, getting comfortable by slinging an arm around his shoulders, setting two forks and picking it off for himself. “Incidentally, I have officially given my statement as to my whereabouts during the incident and I have been cleared of all wrongdoing.”

“Good,” Porthos replies, battling him off with his fork. “I was, too, earlier today.”

“So are you a fan of the popular theory?” Aramis asks. “Do you believe Armand Richelieu is the evil Cardinal?”

Porthos isn’t sure, but there’s a whole lot of evidence and the truth is that it’s piling up and it’s damning. “Tréville was with him for three years,” Porthos says, taking large bites of pasta before Aramis can steal it all. “How can you be with someone for three years and not know if they’re a criminal mastermind?” It goes unsaid that he and Porthos have been together for much shorter and that there are obviously doubts. “If you were on the side of darkness, you’d tell me, right? I mean, I’m not saying I would be pleased, but I do look rather good in a black hat,” he teases. 

“I’m not,” Porthos says firmly. “Not anymore.”

“I know, Porthos, I was only teasing,” Aramis assures him, sliding his thumb in a soothing pattern over Porthos neck. “I mean it, though. If ever you decide to switch sides, then I’m more than happy to abandon the side of good with you.”

Porthos picks at the pasta, feeding pieces of it to Aramis with a fond smile on his face. 

“We need to do something for Tréville,” Porthos says with great determination. “Make him feel better.”

“I think getting the culprit behind bars will be the best possible gift.”

“Even if it is his ex-boyfriend?”

“I believe especially _if_ it is his ex-boyfriend,” Aramis says. “I know I have had many an ex in my past that I would gladly like to see behind bars. However, I would very much like to see you tied up. Bars optional,” he says, kissing away a droplet of sauce from the corner of Porthos’ mouth.

Porthos’ responding sound is weak, exhausted. “In the morning,” he pleads. “Athos wore me down today, pounding pavement.” His exhaustion must show in the weariness around his eyes, because Aramis begins to move his kisses slowly up to the corners of them, gentle and cautious, massaging his fingers over Porthos’ temples. 

“Next time, we go out together. I’m far more sensitive to your needs,” Aramis replies, only half-joking.

Porthos would follow it up with a retort, but he has fallen into the weariness of the day’s exhaustion, wrapping his arms around Aramis’ waist and using his shoulder as a pillow. “When I fall asleep, you carry me to bed.”

“And in the morning, I’m sure you will lead me through the yoga poses to ease the ache.”

Porthos laughs softly, the last remnants of his alertness before he gives in to pleasant dreams about the man in his lap.

* * *

The office is dead silent when Athos, Aramis, and Porthos come into the office in the afternoon. They had spent the morning having breakfast, trying to avoid Tréville’s rage or his heartbreak, but inevitably they couldn’t avoid it. Athos takes his hat off and presses it to his chest, seeing Anne waiting for them at the desk outside Tréville’s office.

He has seen that look on her face before.

It is the look she’d worn the day she served him with divorce papers.

Aramis and Porthos fall behind him, quietly whispering to each other in that shorthand dialect they’ve developed in the months they’ve been together, a lazy version of the language that Athos has unwillingly picked up on, learning it against his will. 

He comes to a stop three paces from Anne, preparing himself for what’s coming next.

“Last night, I visited Saracen.”

Athos’ hackles raise and he gives Anne a look that radiates his displeasure at the very sound of her returning to her once pimp and controller. Anne must have done so only out of great necessity, but Athos still feels inclined to visit and put a rather sharp end through his eye. “And?”

“Money still coerces him to talk,” Anne replies. “He gave up the Cardinal’s name.” Bowing her head low, she inclines it to the empty office behind her, which is all that Athos needs to understand that Tréville has gone to visit the prisoner. “Unfortunately, Athos, you were wrong. The two were related.”

“So it’s true,” Porthos pipes up. “Armand is the Cardinal?”

“What a shame,” Aramis sighs. “Poor Tréville.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, thinking what the ramifications of such a discovery will mean for them as a whole. Tréville will surely want more security and will insist upon an audit into everyone’s lives. He is an open book of tragedy, but he imagines that some of the others might not be so willing to have their comings and goings so closely regarded. He imagines they will likely lose a great deal of their work force as a result of this. “When is he back?”

“He’s taking a week off, going into the country to settle his mind,” Anne replies. “He wants you to know that you’re in charge in the interim.”

Athos grimaces at the unasked for responsibility. “Let’s tighten up the case against the Cardinal,” he says, sending Aramis and Porthos off to the paperwork and to make sure the loose ends are all knotted. “Perhaps we cannot undo the last three years of betrayal, but at least we can try and give him the satisfaction of an arrest.” Anne looks at him a way he hasn’t seen in years and he doesn’t flinch when she reaches out to touch his cheek lightly. “How was he when he left?”

“Heartbroken,” is her quiet reply. “Much like you were, all those years ago.”

“You didn’t infiltrate my life for years for information.”

“No, but I did sleep with your brother,” she admits. “And sometimes, thinking of the dissolution of what we had, I’m not sure it’s any better.” She gestures to the office, pressing Tréville’s keys into his hand. “You’ve got a week. Show him what you’ve got, handsome.”

Athos gives a nod of his head. 

“Anne,” he says, lingering in the doorway. “Thank you. I know it couldn’t have been easy to go back to him, but…”

“It was for Tréville,” she cuts him off sharply. “And the next time I see Saracen, one of my knives will be found in a very painful place in his body. I will leave him alive, but only barely.” She doesn’t blink as Athos looks for falsehood in her statement and then she’s gone, off to help Aramis and Porthos with their search.

Turning, Athos looks at the office before him.

One week.

If nothing else, perhaps he can tidy up the messes before Tréville gets back. The man deserves a fresh start, above all else.


	4. Five Times Aramis and Porthos Were Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Aramis and Porthos were caught in a compromising position and the one time no one was around to see.

_Athos_

He had thought when d’Artagnan had skittishly requested that Athos fetch new reams of paper that he had been lazy, perhaps thinking Athos needed something to occupy his time. What he had not known was that d’Artagnan had keen observational skills, past experience, and a great deal of trepidation when it came to repeating his old mistakes.

Thus, Athos had walked into the fray without even realizing.

He’s been in the supply closet for nearly thirty seconds before he hears the first strange noise. It doesn’t sound like much at all, perhaps the air conditioning system kicking in. Soon, though, with paper stacked in his arms, another noise comes and this one is not quite so mechanical in nature.

“Porthos,” Aramis gasps.

Athos bites his tongue and curses d’Artagnan for sending him into this. He _knew_ the two of them were in here. Athos was pleased for his friends, of course, especially since it meant Aramis went out drinking less and actually acted with slightly more restraint, but that hardly meant that he wanted a front row seat. 

He could leave. 

It would even be easy, but the click of the door closing would surely give the two the knowledge that someone has been in here and listening. He supposes it is their friendship that makes Athos want to take pity on them, so they don’t worry that Treville had wandered in during their tryst. 

Of course, all this goodwill nearly evaporates when he hears the slap of skin on skin in a rushed rhythm that says this is no mere makeout session. “Gentlemen,” Athos remarks evenly, hand on the door and ready with a quick escape in the event he needs it. “Might I suggest the next time you want to fuck at work, you lock the door?”

He has located them, finally, tucked away behind rows of office supplies. Porthos sits on a cabinet with his legs wrapped around Aramis’ waist and their hair is in such disarray that Athos wonders if they had ever intended to keep it a secret.

“Hi, Athos,” Porthos greets, sounding shamed and young.

“Porthos,” Athos replies, faintly bemused. “I’m going to leave now, before I learn what it sounds like when one or both of you come.”

“Good idea,” Aramis concurs, shooting a glance over his shoulder and Athos will be trying to forget that bitten red look on Aramis’ lips for many days to come. 

On his way out, he shoots d’Artagnan a look that implies revenge will not be overlooked. The young man has the good grace to look fearful, which means Athos will, of course, be required to draw it out as long as he possibly can.

**

_d’Artagnan_

He’d been doing so very well. 

In a way, it’s his fault for ignoring the start time on the invitation. The next time, he’ll know better. When it says eight o’clock, d’Artagnan won’t turn up a moment earlier. That, or he really should have a conversation with the men about locking their door. It had been open and d’Artagnan figured that to mean that they were ready to entertain guests and friends, so he had walked in, calling out that he’d parked out front and asking if he’d be towed.

“For fuck’s sake,” d’Artagnan gets out with heavy frustration when he sees what he’s walked into. Porthos is straining backwards, chest heaving and knees dug into the floor, ankles tucked behind. It’s one of the yoga poses from the studio, but those poses don’t typically include Aramis on his stomach, palms splayed out on Porthos’ thighs while sucking his cock.

It’s a quarter to eight. They’re having guests over in fifteen minutes.

And despite d’Artagnan hardly being quiet, they’re not stopping.

Fuming, he presses his bottle of wine on the counter firmly, which gets Porthos’ attention. Despite the way Porthos winds his fingers into Aramis’ hair, the other man doesn’t stop and Porthos doesn’t seem inclined to force him. “In a way,” Porthos gasps out, stroking his thumb over the shell of Aramis’ ear, “this is just getting even.”

“Getting even for…”

D’Artagnan turns a bright shade of red that he had never thought himself capable of going when he remembers the time he and Constance had been caught by Porthos in the kitchen, using Porthos’ whipped cream, one of his cucumbers, and some olive oil around his lips. He’d done very well to repress that memory, too.

“There’s a coffee shop a block away,” Porthos advises. “We’ll be done in…ah,” he gasps, tightening his grip on Aramis’ hair. “Well, I’d hurry if I were you, unless you wanted to watch the big finish.”

D’Artagnan has spun around and is at the coffee shop in record time, wondering if the biggest latte in the world could somehow make him forget all of this. He’s managed to repress worse, but it’s going to take a lot of energy.

Maybe Constance can help out with that.

**

_Treville_

It’s late and Treville has been dragged out of bed because two of his ‘delinquent soldiers’ were ‘caught fornicating on city property’, had been the police’s quote. It doesn’t take long to realize which of his two men they’re speaking about. While a great number of his men can cause trouble, only two of them are currently working undercover on a vice-sting. Sighing, he laments the lack of communication between forces and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He leans over to murmur that he’ll be back before he stops, old habits dying hard.

He tries not to let the fact that there’s no one to warn of his leaving sting, but as always, he can hardly prevent it.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he knows he’s going to be walking into hell. He vows to make Athos do this next time and cite it as a step up in leadership. The officers lead him down a tagged alley, where Porthos and Aramis are slouched without an ounce of remorse in them. Porthos is wearing sinfully tight jeans and a mesh shirt and Aramis is in a tank top designed to show off his muscles and yoga trousers that Treville believes to be Porthos.

“I’ll handle it from here,” he says to the officers heatedly. 

Despite the fact that the boys have been arrested while on a mission, that also means they had given the officers _cause_ to do so. 

“What is it? What did you do?” Treville asks.

Porthos bows his head low, trying to keep things secret between them. “We were just trying to get information.”

“The suspect was in the middle of … ah…” Aramis runs his fingers through his hair, bursting out into drunken laughter that confirms Treville’s suspicion that they’ve been drinking, perhaps a bit too much – or perhaps the adrenaline has simply kicked in and created a high-intensity cocktail. “Well, he was receiving some oral pleasure and we thought to tail him, see if he’s the sort who says all sorts of things when he’s happy.”

“Like...” Porthos starts, but shuts up quickly enough when Aramis shoots him a glare. 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to think about the myriad of images that flood his mind as to exactly how Porthos and Aramis thought to gain information. He has the feeling he truly does not want to know.

“And the police? Where do they factor into this?”

Aramis bites on his lip, gesturing towards Treville. 

It seems to be that he is giving Porthos permission to speak. “It’s only that I’m a bit loud…sir.”

He’s right. He hadn’t wanted to know.

Treville sighs heavily, thinking that perhaps he ought to take some of the vacation that’s owed to him. Athos could certainly handle the day to day and Anne has been instrumental in the past at ensuring operations remain smooth. “Did you learn anything?”

“Took notes,” Porthos guarantees, showing ink smudges on his forearm that vaguely resemble words. “We’ll file a full report in the morning.”

“See that you do.” Treville pauses at the end of the alleyway, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully. “Oh, and boys?” he remarks, not bothering to turn around. “I hope you know you’re on opposite shifts for the next week.”

“Yes, sir,” they echo together, sounding chastised, which is enough for Treville to feel satisfied that _some_ consequences have come of this.

**

_Constance_

The yoga studio is meant to be _sacred_.

Constance knows this because it’s a conversation she’s had with many of their clients, but it’s not one she’d ever thought she’d need to have with Porthos. She’d trusted him with a key to the place, had let him use the studio at all hours because his job makes him work well into the night and she’s not hauling herself to the studio at dawn so Porthos can get his exercise in. 

She’s going to have to steal the key back, though, after what she finds tonight. She’d come back after her date with d’Artagnan because she’d forgotten her phone, but she also doesn’t recall having lit dozens of small tea-light candles around the floor and the scent of wine is definitely not her. 

Breathing sharply, Constance prepares herself for what’s around the corner. 

“Porthos du Vallon,” she says, arch with disappointment after her first glimpse of him in the mirror, legs thrown wide with Aramis on his belly between them, sucking him off with great enthusiasm. Aramis seems to freeze at her voice, though Porthos’ grip of his hair certainly doesn’t loosen. “I hope you’re not actually doing what I see you doing.”

“No?”

“No?” Constance echoes, matching his pitch exactly. “So Aramis isn’t giving you a blowjob?”

Aramis practically vaults backwards, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, of course not, I was merely inspecting Porthos’ upper thigh where he thought perhaps he had a bit of a tick bite,” he says, charming as ever. In the candlelight, his lips are swollen and it’s very easy to see that he’s hard as hell.

“Tick bite,” she deadpans. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Please don’t take my key away,” Porthos pleads hoarsely.

She is more resilient than he thinks, given that she has learned to withstand his boyish pleading looks. She’d take the key from him personally, but she doesn’t exactly know where his hands have been, recently, and she doesn’t want to chance that. “For a week,” she clarifies. “Until you learn to do this with Aramis in your own homes! Now get out!”

“But the ca…”

“I’ll clean up the candles,” she interrupts Aramis. She’s trying her best not to have to look at either of them, but there are so many mirrors in this place and Constance thinks that she’s going to be blinded by the two of them. “Both of you, don’t come for classes for a week!”

“But!”

“Not for a week!” she reiterates, voice high. “Not until I get the image of Aramis between Porthos’ legs out of my head.”

They trudge out with their belongings in piles in their arms and Constance distinctly hears (and wishes she didn’t) Porthos murmur to Aramis as they leave: “Don’t worry, I don’t want that image gone.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” is Aramis’ cocky reply. 

Regarding the candles, Constance briefly debates burning the whole place down. The only thing that stops her is the thought of d’Artagnan’s puppy-like face of disappointment that she’s yet to develop an immunity to. 

**

_Anne Squared_

Anne of Austria is a far better woman than Anne herself is. She bears sweetness as though she has never known anything else. “Annie,” Anne comments evenly. “Are you sure you want to be here? Athos sent me a text, Aramis is here with Porthos.” While the relationship between Annie and Aramis is long over, Anne’s experience with breakups involves a great deal of violence and suffering.

She’s not really sure she believes in a world where breakups happen amicably. 

“I was invited out for drinks and drinks, I’ll have.”

It didn’t hurt, of course, that Anne enjoyed capitalizing on Annie’s sweetness and beauty and often procured as many free drinks as she wanted using only the hint of affection with Annie, fingers trailing down that lovely neck or toying with her hair. Annie always protested that she felt bad for leading men on, but it’s hardly their fault that men like a challenge when they see it.

“Do you think I should buy something for Aramis and Porthos? You said they’d be here.”

“I didn’t tell you so you could buy them alcohol,” is Anne’s reply, searching for the two men in the crowd. They’re not at the bar – though, it is with no surprise that she finds Athos there, glaring miserably into his glass. They’re not in any of the booths with Constance and d’Artagnan, and not in the balcony above the dance floor. Anne’s gaze lowers and as the lights sweep over the room, she finds them. It should be easy enough to keep Annie away from the dance floor. While she enjoys a good slow dance, she’s always been a bit shy of the lascivious, intimate, more personal moves that seem to be on display here.

And my, she hadn’t known Aramis could do what he’s doing with his hips, fingers tangled in Porthos’ curls, back to Porthos’ front as he grinds back and low into Porthos’ lap with the beat, laughing at something, though the music drowns that out. He moves like liquid in the light, sweat dripping down his cheek steadily, catching her eye.

Anne has very little doubt that they won’t be here for long. 

“Shall we go see Athos?” she suggests, even though it feels like she’s stabbing herself with a dull knife to make such a suggestion. Still, the bar is very far from where the boys are and she thinks Annie should enjoy her night out, not have to come to grips with a strange sexual crisis at seeing her ex and his new boyfriend in the middle of…

Well, she’s fairly sure what they’re doing is illegal in more than one county.

“Come on,” Anne says, her smile broad yet false. “I believe Athos owes me at least half his drink given the terms of our divorce.”

Let them have their fun. 

And she will have to be sure to take videos and pictures to never let them forget that she saw.

**

_And the one time they weren’t caught…_

The key fits in the lock.

Porthos doesn’t know why that seems like such a big deal to him, but after finally agreeing to move in with Aramis, he’d kept expecting something to happen. Maybe they’d breakup or have an argument leading to a falling out at work or an asteroid would hit the flat by random chance. So when his key fit in the lock so smoothly, he’s almost shocked.

He heads inside cautiously, listening for sounds of movement. 

What hears is the rustling of sheets coming from Aramis’ -- _their_ \-- bedroom.

Porthos drops his papers on the kitchen table, shucks off his jacket and drapes it on the arm of the couch – that he’s going to have to get used to thinking of as _theirs_ \-- and rounds the corner so he can find what Aramis is up to.

“Well, then,” Porthos remarks, impressed with what he’s found. “You’ve been busy.”

Aramis has stripped himself down to his trousers and has cuffed himself up so that one of his hands and his feet are free, but there is a second set of cuffs in his hands. “I thought perhaps to celebrate our new home, we might consider doing something behind a locked door where no one can intrude.” Something like worry flickers over Aramis’ face. “The door is locked, right? The last thing we need is d’Artagnan walking in again. I thought he might have a heart attack.”

Porthos leans back to double-check that he’d locked the door when he’d wandered in, and when he’s assured of that fact, he nods, stripping off his jacket and his socks, sprawling out on the bed while grasping the other pair of cuffs so he can bind Aramis to the bed.

“I was beginning to think you were into getting off in front of other people,” Porthos mumbles in between kisses up Aramis’ neck.

“I can see how such a conclusion could be made,” Aramis concedes with a hiss, “and yet, I accuse it all on bad luck and timing.”

“Time we start making up for it, then.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees devilishly. “Long past time.”

Besides, thinks Porthos, if they get caught again, he’s fairly sure their friends are going to band together and try and get one of them deported and he has sort of come to love Aramis a touch, so that wouldn’t go over very well at all.


	5. Therapeutic Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos can't avoid his court-mandated therapy sessions anymore and Ninon de Larroque is waiting for him.

“You know,” Porthos says on Athos’ left hand side, “she’s not going to eat you up.”

“I don’t know,” Aramis says from his right, “she does have the most delightful hungry look in her eye whenever she looks at our Athos,” he says, smirking at Porthos from right in front of him, which is terribly inconvenient because he can see them plotting and planning. “Besides, would Athos really like her if not for her ability to tear him to shreds?”

“I should think not,” comes Anne’s cool voice from behind. “Is he going in?”

“Keeps trying to get brave enough to try,” Porthos replies warmly. “You’d think this was actually a choice and not Treville’s insistence after the last fight the two of you had.” Athos feels as if he is a third party in this, allowing all those around him to plan his own life. He’d like to protest that Anne has no business discussing therapy that she, herself, has only completed and Aramis and Porthos can hardly comment about workplace crushes given their relationship.

He never should have indulged in that fourth bottle of red at the bar before allowing all his secrets to spill loose, including the one about how he often fantasized about Ninon de Larroque’s beautiful curls wrapped over his cock.

Aramis isn’t letting him forget that one. 

“Listen,” Porthos says, voice hushed as he grabs Athos’ shoulder with a bit more force, making Athos whimper slightly at the strength of it (though the sound does make Porthos ease off, so perhaps there are small miracles still in the world). “Forget Anne, forget Aramis…”

“Hey!”

“Forget my erstwhile boyfriend whom I will apologize to later,” Porthos continues, shooting a sweet smile in Aramis’ direction. “You can’t exactly avoid this any longer. After the incident between you and Anne at the shooting range the other day, we’re down two interns and Treville’s already lost his patience what with Armand out there taunting him with false promises to reform if he’ll be taken back. Let her talk. If you feel like it, you talk. When you come out of there, we’ll take you to a nice bar with a lot of nice alcohol.”

“And you can tell us all the nice things you fantasized about,” Aramis remarks in a manner Athos is sure Aramis believes helpful. Porthos, bless him, shoves a hand in Aramis’ face to ease him back. “Or not!” 

Athos takes in a deep breath. 

Though he doesn’t mean to, his gaze falls to Anne. Perhaps this is the reason he needs therapy. He doesn’t think a man should rely so heavily upon his ex-wife for advice in these matters, yet here he is. “How did your session go?”

“We discussed anger management techniques, I was issued a firearms ban for two days, and we’re going to go shoe shopping,” Anne says in that casual manner that makes it sound as if she isn’t a terrifying menace who’s had her weapons stripped away from her because of all the horrifying things she might do with them. “She liked my shoes.”

“Is that code or something?” Athos hears Porthos murmur to Aramis. 

Athos breathes out steadily, unable to keep his gaze off of Anne. There’s more to this and they both know it. Therapy isn’t the only reason that Athos is so hesitant to walk in that room. For months, he’s had a lingering crush on Ninon that the office is well-aware of, but only Anne knows how deep it actually runs (or perhaps serious is the better word). 

“Anne…”

“Athos, please,” Anne cuts him off. “We’re divorced.” He could protest that for their divorce, they still have a tendency to sleep together, but he thinks a relationship as complicated and messy as theirs could never end so easily. “Go and talk to her. Once she’s through and her obligation as your therapist ends, ask her to drinks.”

“Just as you asked her to go shoe-shopping?” Athos remarks knowingly.

“Afraid of a little romantic competition?”

_”It is code,”_ Aramis hisses victoriously behind them. 

“Hardly,” is Athos’ calm reply. “After all, you taught me everything I know about seduction.” He takes delight in the smile that wins from Anne and with one fervent and enthusiastic last push from Porthos, he stumbles into the small office to find Ninon waiting for him with a pad of paper in her hands and a terribly amused smile playing on her lips.

Her arrival at the office as their liaison in all matters of counseling had been a rather strange transition for Athos, who had found himself attracted to another woman for the first time since the divorce with Anne.

She removes her reading glasses and gestures to the chair, scanning Athos like she actually might decide to eat him alive if he moves the wrong way. 

“Sit,” she encourages. “This is our first session, so what I’d really like to do is get to know you.”

Athos sits precariously on the edge of the chair, feeling like he’s preparing himself to bolt away at any moment if danger appears. She seems to sense that, giving him a wry look as she sits opposite. He can still smell Anne’s forget-me-not perfume in the air and it’s enough to make him feel both unsettled and comfortable at once.

He knows that Ninon is meant to be a work counselor, but Athos is beginning to wonder if she does personal consultations. 

“I haven’t been here very long, but I’ve noticed you,” Ninon begins when Athos doesn’t say a single word. “You wear a sort of sadness on your face and while you smile, I don’t think I’ve actually seen you laugh.” Athos feels tense as she peels away at him, as if she means to get to the very core of his issues. He’s already had to learn how to be more open once when Porthos had joined their ranks and Aramis had taken to him so swiftly.

Truthfully, Athos perhaps thought that Aramis would be done with him quickly, like Marsac, but Porthos seems like he’s fit to go the distance. It’s a good thing. Porthos is Athos’ favourite of all of Aramis’ partners. 

“You’re officially here because you and Anne have been coping with your divorce in a very unprofessional manner and I’m here to make sure no one dies or quits because of it. She seems quite proud of the number who have left. And you?”

“I feel guilty, of course, but if they couldn’t handle a simple argument, perhaps they’re not cut out for this work,” is Athos’ even reply, folding his palms in his lap.

“I’m beginning to see how you two suit each other.” She seems not to mind that, though. “I banned her use of firearms for two days since it seems that she’s more suited to taking out her anger with weapons, but from the consultations I’ve had with your coworkers…”

_Bastards_ , thinks Athos, because no doubt Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan have sold him out. 

“…I believe you allow yourself to indulge in too much alcohol, which leaves you prone to ill judgment.”

She’s spoken to them, all right. 

“Do you want me to quit drinking?”

“I’m not your rehabilitist,” Ninon says quickly. “No, what I would like for you to do is start to keep a log. Each time you drink, I want you to record why. If you’re happy or sad or angry, I want to know about it.” She presents him with a slim, elegant black notebook. “Keep it to small faces, if you’re so inclined. I don’t think you need to stop drinking, but I do think you need to be aware of when the alcohol is affecting your mood and leading to sleepless nights, foul moods, and fights in which an intern’s earlobe is shot off.”

That guilt swarms Athos again. It’s the worst incident in a few years, but almost burning the office down still takes the cake.

Athos reaches forward to take the journal from her, his fingers brushing hers in the process. The majority of writing he’s done recently involves reports for Treville. Keeping a log of what he feels when he drinks seems too simple a thing to be leaving therapy with, so he raises his eyebrow and regards her expectantly. 

“You don’t want to talk about my family? Delve deeply into my past?”

Ninon smiles like she’s eaten ten men before Athos wandered in and she knows how much she unnerves him. “This is only our first session,” is her playful reply. “There’s always next week.” Athos feels a chill race down his back and the most frightening part is that he’s unsure whether it’s fear or _excitement_.

The remainder of the session proves to be inane. They discuss Athos’ service with Treville’s company and past incidents that he’s sought counseling for. She asks about his relationship with his coworkers and he is bluntly honest about them all – “Brash and arrogant, but charming,” is about Aramis. “Enthusiastic and eager, but new,” of course d’Artagnan. “Beautiful and deadly and secretive,” is his ex-wife, and Porthos is, “Strong and capable, but fearful of something in his past.”

She writes down notes while he speaks, assuring him that it’s only for her memory and not her subjective interpretations. 

When she releases him, Athos feels slightly better that he hadn’t been subjected to an hour-long nightmare session of feelings, regrets, and pain. He is unsurprised to find his colleagues waiting for him and Athos thinks, perhaps, he ought to have been sharper in his appraisal of them. 

“Well?” Aramis asks eagerly.

Athos tries not to notice the fresh red mark on Aramis’ neck that he’s procured in the last hour, which means Porthos is surely forgiven for his previous faults. Clasping his notebook in hand, he slides into his chair and spins until he can face them, giving them an utterly blank stare in return, offering nothing up at all.

“Told you he wouldn’t say anything,” Porthos says with a smirk.

The only one of them who doesn’t leave (on their way to the pub, no doubt) is Anne. She’s waiting for him at her desk, playing with her fingerless gloves. She’s packed and ready to go, but seems to be waiting to make sure that Athos has survived his session. 

“Well?”

“I have to keep a log of my drinking habits,” he informs her, holding up the book. “She thinks it will help me become aware of them.”

Anne seems faintly approving of this. She rises to her feet, purse in hand, and lingers at his desk. “You should start now,” she says, opening the book and prying a pen from the cup that holds them on his organized desk. She cracks open the spine of the book (much to Athos’ chagrin) and begins to write in her neat cursive writing at the very top:

_6PM, drinks with the boys, additional drinks to cope with Porthos and Aramis when they get inebriated and affectionate, more drinks to listen to d’Artagnan’s love woes_

She taps the face of her watch as she leaves him. “Don’t linger,” is her firm order.

Athos keeps the book open, picking up the blue pen that Anne had dropped in order to painstakingly draw a very neat and precise smiling face beside what she’s written before he closes the book, on his way to the pub to spend the evening with the boys.

And perhaps in several weeks when his mandated therapy is over, he’ll be able to write an entry in his journal that speaks of having a good wine with the loveliest woman he’s met in ages (provided she doesn’t want to analyze him the whole of the time).


	6. The Rescue

In the years that Aramis has worked under Tréville, he has never once been late.

That is, until today. Athos has been trying to reach him on the phone, through every channel possible, but he hasn’t been able to reach him and d’Artagnan and Anne have had no luck, either. Tréville swears that he isn’t on a mission and more worryingly, no one can get a hold of Porthos either. It’s as if they’ve both vanished into thin air, a feat that Athos would have thought impossible. 

“Try it again,” he says, when Anne says she’s received Porthos’ mailbox.

“There’s no point.”

Athos nearly breaks his neck looking up at the sound of Aramis’ voice, who has wandered into the office with red-rimmed eyes that are set in a crazed manner that say that something has happened. He sets his hat upon his desk and immediately grabs the phone, dialing furiously and summoning Tréville. He bears a look on his face that says he only has the spirit in him to explain this once and Athos feels himself beginning to give over to the deep pool of dread.

“What is it? You’ve found him?” Tréville asks, eyes widening when he sees Aramis. “What’s happened?”

“Porthos was taken,” Aramis says darkly. “He didn’t make it home last night and…”

“Last _night_?” D’Artagnan interrupts, a frantic look on his face. “And you’re only thinking to tell us now?”

Aramis’ responding glare is murder personified. Athos doesn’t blame d’Artagnan for the way he shrinks back, seemingly cowed into silence until the explanation is through. Aramis waits a beat, as if inviting the others to comment on the state of things. When no one else speaks (because the rest of them are too clever to do such a thing), he nods. 

“I got back to the flat and he was gone, but there were signs of a struggle in the foyer and broken furniture in nearly every room,” Aramis says darkly. “I spent the night chasing down leads to find out what I could, digging into Porthos’ past, but the stubborn idiot of a man was always so vague about the years between sixteen and eighteen,” Aramis complains. “Nearly a year and a half, I’ve been dating him and that period of his life is as dark to me now as it was when we met.” 

“Do you have any leads?” Athos asks.

“One,” Aramis agrees, turning his sharp eyes to Anne, who has remained incredibly quiet for this whole conversation, a trait unlike her. “The last person I talked to told me that you knew who Porthos ran with in those days and that you might still be in contact with them.”

“I doubt very much that my contacts took Porthos, even though they know him,” Anne argues, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “They might think themselves clever, but their movements are loud. I would have known. If Flea was behind this, I’d know.”

“There’s another,” Aramis insists. “The people I spoke to said there were factions.”

“Now,” Anne says calmly, even as she picks up her gun and begins storing extra ammunition in small compartments that she’ll strap to her body, “that’s a different story. I imagine there’s a perverse sort of gift notion in all this in bringing Porthos back to the king of the old Court.”

“Aramis,” Athos warns, knowing the instant the word was released to the air that they would have to be cautious. 

No one merely walked into the Court of Miracles without good reason, excellent backup, and enough firepower. Thieves, brigands, and beggars populated the streets, but murderers were amongst them and one had to tread lightly when walking there. Athos had known that Anne could slip inside those alleys with ease, having grown up a thief and a beggar herself, but he hadn’t known how deep Porthos’ ties to that community might have been.

“I don’t care,” Aramis says brazenly, a wild look in his eyes as he regards his friends. He does take the moment to regard Tréville’s office cautiously, as though he’s about to be caught and found out for what he’s about to do. He looks a bit mad, but Athos supposes he can understand. If, during the height of the marriage, someone had taken Anne, he would have been murderous.

Oh, why lie?

If someone took her today, he would still murder his way up the streets of Paris to find her.

“You’re taking Anne,” is all Athos has to say about this god-forsaken plan that seems to have been cooked up without much thought at all. Aramis opens his mouth to protest, but Athos shuts him up with a single look. “Get him dressed,” Athos says to Anne. “Make sure he doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Come along, you,” Anne says to Aramis, affecting as much cheer as she can in her voice. Given the situation, there’s hardly much to be cheerful about, but she’s making her best attempts. “I’ve always wanted to know what hobo chic looks like on you.”

Athos can already tell that no matter what anyone does, the storm cloud mood won’t lift until they have Porthos safe and sound. He’d always known about Porthos’ past in the broad strokes of it, but never specific enough to know who he’d run with and who he knew. Finding out that he and Anne have connections in common isn’t a surprise, but it does bode poorly.

Athos knows some of these men and women.

He knows what they can be like when something is taken from them and it seems they’ve branded Porthos one of their own and have decided it’s time to take him back.

“I won’t rest until he’s safe,” Aramis warns Athos, as though anything else would be expected.

“Go,” Athos says. “D’Artagnan and I will begin to reach out to other organizations and see if these people are on anyone’s watch list. I’m sure someone in the city would be happy to have them behind their bars.”

They’re gone by virtue of Aramis’ determined gait out of the office. 

D’Artagnan, however, lingers and wears a look on his face that Athos doesn’t like very much. “What?” Athos prods, given that he imagines the truth must come out at some point and it’s better to air it now than later. 

“What if he staged all this?” D’Artagnan asks quietly.

“Do you really think he would? Porthos has done nothing but try and escape from his past and despite the many frustrations their relationships brings me, he and Aramis seem very happy together. What would he give that up for?”

D’Artagnan shrugs, as if he’s mystified by the puzzle himself. “I don’t know. I guess I’m only exploring all the options.”

“Let’s explore some better options,” Athos says. “Get your things, we’re going to start working out way through the streets, see if we can’t encourage someone to speak by virtue of the shine of a coin or three.”

**

Each minute that passes that doesn’t have Porthos safe and sound is a moment too many, as far as Aramis is concerned. Anne has done an admirable job of trussing him up as if he belongs on the streets, but he’d rather have spent the time searching for Porthos or beating the information out of someone who might know. “There,” Anne says, placing a feathered and bedraggled hat atop Aramis’ head, brushing a lock of his hair away from his face. “Now, remember, you might want to go through your life being noticed, but where we’re going, it’s best to blend in.”

“I’d rather simply burst in and demand to know where he is.”

“Which will get you shot,” Anne says. “We’re going into tricky waters, Aramis, and unfortunately, I know them.” It makes Aramis bristle slightly to think of the life that Porthos had before him, given that there are people in it who would take him by force for reasons he still doesn’t know or understand. He tugs at the hat on his head, pulling it off and stretching to see the move of the clothing he’s wearing.

He’s grateful that Anne has made sure to give him a place to hide some of his pistols. He knows that he has no jurisdiction and can’t shoot to kill, but he’s more than willing to maim if it comes down to it. Keeping his attention fixated on Porthos having been taken by force is basically the only thing he can do, now, to avoid the thought that maybe Porthos had gone willingly.  
Maybe the apartment had been staged.

Maybe all this is his way of getting out. Aramis takes in a deep breath to try and belay those kinds of horrible thoughts, following after Anne as they begin to work their way through Paris, slipping down to the Metro and taking the line north into the arrondissements of Saint-Denis, which Aramis has been to many a time when the _stade_ grows unruly after a match.

They travel in silence, mostly thanks to Aramis’ obsessive thoughts consuming him, and he’s only pulled out of them when Anne reaches over to rest a hand on his knee. 

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t think what you’re thinking,” she advises. “It’ll drive you mad.”

He _knows_ that, doesn’t he? After all, it’s hardly like he can control his mind and while he has every faith in Porthos, the man’s track record isn’t exactly gleaming. He’s never really stayed in one place for a very long time and he’s also never really had a serious relationship. Maybe he’d taken a look at his life, found it monotonous, and wanted to leave.

“Porthos has always wanted security, he just could never find it,” Anne continues, drawing Aramis from the worst scenario thoughts. “I’ve never seen him happier than he is when he’s with you. He gets scared, but not scared enough to run. I’ve never seen Porthos run from a fight. If he was unhappy with you, Aramis, you would know.”

Their stop arrives and Aramis slides out with the crush of people, letting Anne guide the way and leading them on through narrowing cobblestone side-streets, merging into more modern pavement as the houses around them grow poorer and more dilapidated. Everyone here is doing the best they can for themselves, but the struggle seems harder.

Anne nods with her head, waiting at the doorway of a bar. “Come on, this is where Charon used to like to drink.” She presses her palm to Aramis’ chest when he gets ready to barrel in. “Caution, Aramis,” she warns. “We’re going to be outnumbered, outwitted, and he has what we want. Don’t play his game. Rise above.”

If only he could manage to turn off his heart the way Anne seems well capable of doing.

He gives a brusque nod. If there’s anyone he can control his temper for, it’s Porthos. He casts one last look at the alley behind him, noting all the interested parties that have come to stand on doorstops and Aramis wonders, not for the first time, just how many allies Charon has in this. He also makes a note to insist that Porthos tells him _everything_ about his past.

The bar, previously riotously loud, falls into a frightening silence as soon as Anne and Aramis walk in. She plucks off the fingerless gloves and tucks them into her belt, advancing to a table in the back that’s a bit higher than all the rest, where a man is sipping on his wine and staring at Aramis like he intends to burn a hole through his heart.

Perhaps this has been a mistake.

After all, if Charon had known where Porthos is to get close enough to take him, surely that means he also knows who Aramis is. Maybe that’s exactly what he needs. Maybe Charon needs to understand how dangerous Aramis can be, especially when the things he loves are being taken from him.

Anne takes the opposite empty seat as if it’s been waiting for her, but Aramis chooses to stand, instead. He wants to be ready to draw a gun or find Porthos, or whatever he needs to do to get the man home safe and sound.

“You’re early.”

“Are we?” Anne replies, lifting her hand to order a drink without letting her eyes move off Charon’s face (because it must be him, from the throne-like seat in the room to the way the others look at him with fear). “Aramis, I told you to set your watch properly.”

“You know me, I like to be punctual,” Aramis replies, body angled so that he can keep an eye both on Charon, but also on the door and the other patrons. “Next time, we’ll just have to plan to be fashionably late.”

“He’s not here,” Charon says.

“No, you wouldn’t keep him here,” Anne agrees. “Aramis, would you like a glass of wine? They serve a choice selection of stolen vintages here.”

“I’m good, thank you,” Aramis replies, keeping his tone warm and conversational while retaining the edge of threat. “I was thinking I’d save the wine for later, when Porthos is back with us.”

“Straight to the point, isn’t he?” Charon muses, but he’s speaking to Anne. “I always liked to have a drink before I got down to business, but the way he’s vibrating makes me think that if we don’t talk money, he’s going to burst.” 

The statement pulls Aramis’ attention away from the rest of the bar. Staring at Charon, he gapes with little understanding, though Anne seems to know what’s going on by the bow and the quirk of her lips. He breathes in a little sharper and wonders what Charon had been to Porthos, all those years ago, and wonders what he is now. “This isn’t some sort of gift,” he realizes. “This isn’t Porthos running back to an old life, this isn’t even you trying to pull him back,” Aramis says, eyes widening with the horror of the situation. “This is about money.”

“Isn’t everything?” is Charon’s wry reply.

Anne reaches out to grab at Aramis’ wrist before he can surge forward and choke the life out of Charon as he so very dearly wants to. “What’s your price?”

Charon names it and Aramis thinks that he would rather shoot everyone dead in this bar than pay a blackmail fee to get back the man who spent years trying to escape this place after he’d fallen prey to it. It’s more than Aramis has at his disposal, but he also knows that Athos and d’Artagnan will find someone who wants to lock him up. The problem is whether they’ll ever find Porthos if Charon goes down. 

The details of a drop are arranged between Charon and Anne and when they leave, the bar strikes up with noise again. Anne pulls the gloves from the waist of her jeans and slides them back on, not saying a word. Aramis is burning with the need to go and find Porthos and not give Charon a single cent. 

“We’re not actually going to give him the money, are we?” Aramis demands, incensed at the idea. Anne only looks back at him with the thousand-yard-stare she’d perfected a very long time ago, but there’s nothing on her face that says she’s planning on doing anything but. “Anne!” he snaps, but she grabs him by the elbow and begins to tug him away. 

“I don’t want to pay it either,” she says sharply, trying to scan the area around them and silencing Aramis with a single look. “Unfortunately, I also have no leads. Better Charon thinks we’re with him than…”

She’s interrupted by the insistent beeping of Aramis’ phone.

“Did you give Charon your number?” Anne asks. “Maybe it’s Athos? D’Artagnan?”

Aramis pulls out his phone and thumbs through the missed texts. There is one from Athos that says that the local police will be more than happy to arrest Charon for petty larceny committed recently, but the most recent and important text has come from _Porthos_. _Rue Martinique_ , it reads. _97\. Bring knife._ He’s about to ask if that means anything to Anne, but she’s smiling and giving Aramis an encouraging nod. “Go. I’ll text Athos and tell him to bring along the police. We’ll wait until we get the all clear from you.”

Aramis doesn’t need another second’s encouragement. Rue Martinique is a twenty minutes’ walk, but only an eight minute run when he’s determined to get there, pausing only at a small restaurant to cheerfully liberate a steak knife from their premises with a charming apology and a shrug of his shoulders. When he arrives at the door in question, he tests the knob and finds it unlocked, which would be odd if not for the fact that when Aramis enters, there are three burly men unconscious on the ground and Porthos is standing with his wrists bound tightly together. 

“You couldn’t have escaped?”

“I only worked free from the chair, took out three men, and texted you my location,” Porthos says with disbelief, holding out his wrists expectantly. “Who do you think I am?”

Aramis takes those last few steps and regards Porthos with such relief and love and affection. He runs the knife through the coarse ropes and sends it skittering away on hard concrete so he can pay more attention to thrusting both hands through Porthos’ curls, kissing him with a demanding ask that Porthos return his affection.

Lucky for him that Porthos seems inclined for it, flexing out his fingers and testing them by grabbing onto Aramis’ hip to pull him flush in. 

“How did you get out of the chair?” Aramis asks breathlessly when he’s through kissing Porthos – though he doesn’t let him stray very far. He’s quick to inspect Porthos’ body, looking for signs of damage. Apart from the bruising that looks to be kicks, punched, and bondage, Porthos looks fit to make a full recovery.

Porthos gives a sheepish sort of smile. “Don’t think Charon expected me to be as flexible as I’ve become.”

Aramis claps his hands together with sheer delight. “Yoga,” he remarks with a cheerful chuckle. “Yoga got you out?”

“Yeah, but it was a good brawl that managed to knock those three out.” Porthos scowls, a dark look overcoming his usually bright features. “That’ll teach them to come after me out of nowhere.” His look turns to concern. “The flat? Did they ruin anything?”

“A few knick-knacks, but now that I have you back, it doesn’t matter.” Aramis reluctantly draws his hands away from Porthos’ arms to text Athos with the update that they’re both safe and that the authorities are free to do with Charon whatever they’d like. “Your friend is about to find himself in some deep trouble with the law,” he says. 

“Not my friend,” Porthos says, making Aramis incredibly happy to hear those words from his mouth. “I’m worn,” he says. “And probably could use a quick check from my favourite medic to make sure I’m okay.”

“Will a thorough sponge-bath do?” Aramis asks as he coaxes Porthos’ arm around his shoulders to give him aid as they depart. 

Porthos seems to give the matter the due consideration it needs, worrying his lip as they begin their slow return to the heart of Paris and their flat. 

“Well,” he draws out the word, “I suppose it’ll be a start.” He presses closer to Aramis’ side, the warmth a reassuring constant. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“None of that, now,” Aramis insists. “You’re back.”

“And I don’t plan on going anywhere, ever again.”

“Ah,” Aramis says, the promise setting his heart to skipping a beat. “Finally, a vow from you I will hold you to, permanently.” He leans their heads together so that his temple touches Porthos’ briefly before he sets them in the direction of the Metro. “Come along. You’ve earned many a night off and I plan to see that you receive the most impeccable care from the handsomest, most charming, and beautiful nurse in Paris.”

“Really? When do I get to meet him?”

The vicious kiss to his temple is all that Aramis feels compelled to give in retribution to such a remark, for even with such cutting jibes of teasing, he cannot wish any harm on Porthos and is only too happy to have him safe and in his arms again.

**

Two days later, when Porthos is fit for human company again and isn’t just a walking canvas of black and blue bruises, Athos takes them all out for drinks to give them updates about what’s happened to Charon. “It turns out there were four arrest warrants outstanding on the man,” Athos says, as he pours wine for the table. “And, regrettably, he lacked the bail money to get himself out. One of his plans didn’t go right, it seems.”

Aramis draws Porthos closer within his arms with triumph, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Strange you should mention, because one of my plans did go very right at the exact same time,” he says, lifting his glass for a salute. “I found my dream man in an abandoned flat in Paris. Of all the luck…”

They get back to drinking, but as the night wears on, Aramis takes the opportunity to slide away from Porthos in the booth and approach Anne, who’s been nursing a brandy at the bar – she and Athos are able to be civil at work, but outside of it presses the matter. 

“Thank you,” he says firmly. “I wouldn’t have been able to find him without your help.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Anne notes. “I think it only would have taken you longer.”

“Still, you didn’t have to help us and you did.”

Anne sets her glass down and gives Aramis a searching look, as if she wants to learn something, only he’s missing out on exactly what that might be. “I don’t think you realize that I really do want you and Porthos to work out,” she says. “After the life he’s had, he deserves it and you’ve turned out to be not entirely a human disaster in a relationship, as one might suspect.”

Aramis chuckles warmly, the sharp cut of her words as potent as ever, but Aramis has always been able to absorb them with ease. 

He lifts his wine to her in thanks. “I would never do something so stupid as to be anything less than my best for him. He pushes you to it, I think,” Aramis admits, turning so that his gaze lands on Porthos. That sunny smile and the warmth of his heart draw Aramis to more fondness and love than he’s ever felt in his life and he suspects that’s true of anyone who knows Porthos. Aramis has been the lucky one to get him in his arms, is all.

“Good,” Anne replies cheerfully. “I would hate to have to murder you, if you broke his heart.”

Aramis absolutely knows she’s kidding. 

After all, she’d probably only _maim_ him. Still, he’s not about to give her the chance.

With a last coy wink in her direction, Aramis returns to the booth and slides his arm around Porthos’ shoulders to draw him back into the warmth of his arms, eager to never let him go and to properly celebrate his return to them. 

“Tell them the story again,” Aramis encourages, “of how you escaped.”

Porthos sighs, but there’s a broad grin on his lips as he leans forward to captivate the group’s attention. “So there I was…”

There’s no one better than Porthos, Aramis thinks as he lets himself get washed away in the story. None in the world.


	7. The Wooing of Jean Treville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville is getting an odd number of very pointed gifts. Who else could they be from, if not the Cardinal?

In the last week, the topic of choice of all the papers in Paris is a singular subject; the elusive and mysterious criminal who goes by the name of the _Cardinal_. Everyone yearns to know who this mystery man is, who liberates paintings and jewels from museums and in fencing them to rich buyers, then sends a cut back to the government. Treville wishes that he were one of the masses who didn’t have a clue of the Cardinal’s identity, but unfortunately, he has seen the light.

He and his group have long known that Richelieu is the Cardinal, but without proof they cannot do anything about it. Beyond that, there is the tricky subject of Richelieu being Treville’s ex and the respectability of the firm on the line.

If only Treville didn’t have to see the news every day.

“It’s as if he’s trying to get your attention,” Porthos notes one morning, which happens to be day five of the constant media attention. Today, it announces, the Cardinal has liberated several pieces of history from Carnavalet.

Today is the day when one of the drums from the revolution had been found in Treville’s office.

It might have been seen as a taunt, but Treville knows better. This is an olive branch to try and get a conversation – all because once, in the dwindling light of dying candles, Treville had made mention of his affection for the subject of the French revolution. Armand had paid attention as he always did, with that hawkish look in his eyes.

Treville honestly doubts that the man has ever let a single piece of information slip through his fingers.

He begins to pluck the newspapers from the hands of each his men, enduring their protests until he takes the last of the journals from Athos and is met with several glares of disbelief (and one unfortunate sympathetic look from d’Artagnan, who has yet to figure out that it’s to be buried when it comes to this topic). “Onto new topics,” he insists. “I don’t pay you to sit around gossiping. There’s surveillance to be done, paperwork to be filled out, and much more beyond that. We’re still on the hook to find Labarge for the thefts in Gascony.”

“And what of the Cardinal?” Athos asks calmly.

Treville bunches the papers in his hand, not sure whether he’s happy that none of them refer to him as Richelieu. “What about him?”

“Five thefts in a row? You don’t suspect a sixth?”

Treville does, but he isn’t sure he wants to acknowledge what Athos is driving at.

“Of all those in Paris, we have the unique advantage of knowing who he is and where he may strike next,” Athos says, folding his hands in his laps to make up for the loss of his paper. The others are regarding him with wide-eyed interest (Porthos and Aramis looking as if they can’t quite believe Athos is taking on this argument). “I’m sure the Parisian government would be more than happy if we were to arrest him. Unless, of course, there’s a reason you don’t want him brought in?”

“The Cardinal is not our business,” Treville says sharply. “Not yet. We have enough to do and no one is paying us to bring him in. Get to work.”

While Athos and Anne linger, the others are still too afraid of him to disobey an order.

Of course it would be these two who seek to challenge him. “What?” he asks tiredly.

“I believe the question Athos doesn’t want to ask is whether you actually want justice to come to him,” Anne says, when Athos doesn’t say a word. “You loved him, obviously. I won’t presume to know whether you still do, though I believe Athos and I are both well aware of how complicated long-term relationships can be.”

“If I wanted a therapist, I would go see Ninon,” Treville replies as he shuffles his papers. “Go and find Labarge. Bring him to me.”

The day is an unending exhaustion after that. He stops to buy wine on the way home, but it turns out that one bottle of red certainly isn’t going to cut it for the evening. As he approaches his flat, he quickly sees that his first impression hadn’t been wrong and he doesn’t actually need to have his eyes checked.

Balancing the plastic bags in his arms, he digs out his phone and calls d’Artagnan and Porthos, who are both on duty for the evening shift. “Come to my place. Bring cuffs,” he says, his voice tinged with sheer disbelief. Hanging up, he wanders slowly closer to the writhing figure gagged and bound on his doorstep. There’s a single piece of paper tucked in amidst the ropes that Treville plucks out.

_You’re welcome_ , it reads. Signed with a flourish of an ‘A’, meaning that it could only have come from one person.

It appears that Richelieu has graduated from petty art thefts to bounty hunting.

When Porthos and d’Artagnan arrive, Treville is slumped beside the now-unconscious Labarge, the bottle of wine half finished. He thinks of the years that he and Armand had spent together and how he had always been so very good at holiday presents. This actually probably compares to some of the Valentine’s Days and birthdays that they’ve had.

Porthos advances first, eyeing the situation warily. “Didn’t know you were into bondage, sir,” he jokes. God bless Porthos for trying to diffuse the situation, even if Treville doesn’t feel much like laughing at the moment.

“Cuff him and bring him to the station,” Treville says, staggering to his feet and feeling the effects of the wine for the first time.

“Where did he come from?”

Treville stares at the piece of paper in his hand and then gives d’Artagnan a cool, unreadable look. “Just bring him in, then go home,” he says. “I’m sure Constance and Aramis will be happy to see you. Have your phones on in case of an emergency, but we’ll close early tonight. We’ve got our man, after all. No need to burn the midnight oil.”

D’Artagnan and Porthos exchange a silent look, but neither of them seem eager to disagree, even if Porthos shrugs readily. They collect Labarge quickly, cuffing him as Porthos does most of the lifting to get him on his feet, smacking his cheek to try and rouse him.

Once they’re finally out of the building, Treville trudges inside to find a single lamp has been left on in the living room.

“You know, I always liked the view from our dining room,” Armand notes, peering through the blinds. “I was about to leave if you didn’t come inside, but your underlings were still lingering out there.”

“My employees,” Treville corrects.

“I barely spoke to them at your functions, I don’t care what you want me to call them now,” Armand remarks dismissively. “Especially as I think you’re the only one worth his salt of the lot of them. Well?” he prompts, folding his hands over his lap.

Treville sets the half-finished bottle of wine down on the counter, gaping at Armand as he locks the door behind him and debates calling Porthos back to add one more to their little caravan towards the police. “Well, what?” Treville snaps back.

“Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

“For what?”

“For the man I left gift-wrapped on your porch!” Armand gestures with a great deal of aggression towards the door, as if he’s the one who ought to be thanked profusely for his illegal activities. “You’ve been after him, you’re bound to collect. I was at least expecting a thank you,” he finishes, with the same stubborn pride that he’s worn for so long.

Treville has, quite honestly, had enough. He stalks forward to press the tip of his finger firmly against Armand’s chest, ignoring how close that puts the two of them. “You siphon information off of me for _years_ , you lie to me, you risk my reputation, then you leave me. Now, you’re trying to win me back through some ill-advised attempt to soften me up with stolen gifts and hogtied criminals?” Said out loud, it’s actually even worse than it sounds.

Armand seems to find no problem with this. “Should I have sent you roses and wine instead?”

“You could have started by not running a criminal empire under my nose!”

It’s like all the pressure under Treville’s skin has burst forward and exploded, a rush of anger and guilt and shame working its way out until it’s directed at the rightful target sitting right in front of him. 

“I was in that world before I met you,” Armand says. 

“Then why lie? For years, why lie?” Treville demands, chin high with stubborn pride.

“Would you have ever looked at me twice if you’d known the truth?” Armand folds his hands in his lap, reclining back and though Treville itches to reach out and touch him, he refrains from putting his hands on Armand -- whether to strangle him or touch him, he’s not sure. “I said what I had to, in order to get the chance to be with you.”

“And you left me,” Treville reminds him heatedly. “You lied to be with me and then you left me.”

“The law was close to coming down very hard on me,” Armand says, his body language beginning to veer more towards being closed off. “To keep you safe, it was best if I left for a time. I’m here now,” he points out. “With quite a few apology gifts, I might add.” 

Treville doesn’t know why he’s even listening to this. He should pick up and leave with his bottle of wine. Surely Athos wouldn’t mind the company if he turned up uninvited so long as he had a bottle with him. In fact, that seems like the very best idea. He digs into his bags, pointedly holding Armand’s gaze as he fumbles to dig out change for the Metro.

“And where are you going?”

It’s that tone that Treville hates -- the imperious one that demands that everyone in the world must listen to him and bow to his great knowledge and command of the world. “Out,” is his singular response. “Stop leaving me gifts.” He’s beginning to worry at the escalation rate. What’s next? The entire St-Denis gang in his living room? 

“Where are you going?” Richelieu asks again, but there’s a darker hint in this same question. Treville knows the man well enough to read between the lines. _Who are you going to?_ is what he really wants to know.

“Athos or Anne,” Treville says. “I haven’t decided.” He has liquor for Athos and he’ll secure Anne’s shelter with the promise of a juicy assignment later. He knows that Richelieu would prefer to see him go to the latter, which is why he’s more inclined to go and see Athos. “Unless you’re willing to come with me and risk the arrest, I believe we’re done here.”

“We’re not done,” Richelieu says, brushing past Treville as he exits as if he’s going on his terms rather than Treville kicking him out.

When the room finally feels empty of Richelieu’s presence, Treville reflects that the man is right.

Things are never done until Richelieu says they are.

* * *

He’s hungover when he gets to work the next morning, but given the number of times he’s walked in to find Aramis wearing his sunglasses through the day or Anne with a look of murder on her face (not to mention Athos showing up, _generally_ ), he knows that no one is going to say a word if they value their jobs.

“Labarge was brought in, then,” Athos greets Treville calmly, extending a cup of black coffee to him. “Odd how quickly that happened, given our lack of leads. Tell me, how did he arrive at your place?”

“Maybe his guilty soul did him in,” Treville suggests, adding five sugars to his cup to drown out the bitterness. He can only handle it from one source at the moment and Athos is more than enough. When he glances up from his mug, Athos is still staring at him in that soul-searching way that makes Treville wonder when the coup is coming and his job will be Athos’. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you didn’t see Richelieu, because if you did and he’s not in one of our cells, I’m going to have to question why he isn’t,” Athos remarks in that deceptively even and borderline warm tone he has, the one that’s just a prelude to the guillotine snapping down on its unsuspecting victim.

That’s the question, isn’t it?

Why isn’t Treville sitting in one of their cells, cuffed, where he can’t be any more trouble to anyone? The more troubling fact is that Treville already knows that he’s not there because then Treville would have to face the fact that things between them would be permanently done and he’s still holding out the slightest sliver of hope that he can talk Armand around to the white hats. After all, Porthos and Anne are precedent enough that you don’t have to be perfect to work with them.

“He won’t change.”

“Maybe not,” Treville agrees. “That doesn’t mean I want to be the one to bring him in. I’m not like you,” he says, not to be unkind, but to be honest. “I don’t think I have the heart.”

“I believe you mean the lack of one,” Athos replies. “The mail came in. There’s a package for you. Richelieu sending more gifts?”

Treville sent Athos away with a single glower that had yet to fail him in his professional life. Unfortunately, it seems that Athos hadn’t been incorrect. On the top of the pile, there was a thick envelope from a courier. He could feel prying eyes on him from all around the office -- d’Artagnan and Aramis weren’t even being subtle about staring, though Anne and Porthos were doing their best to look busy while they spied on him. 

He turned around to go into his office, flipping his letter opener into his hand to open the package.

Inside, there was no treasure, no letter, but there was a single plane ticket to the Cayman Islands with his name on it and with a seat reserved for him in first class.

There was a single post-it note attached to it.

_I’ll stop, if you’ll come with me_.

Treville gave an exasperated huff and wished it didn’t sound so stupidly fond. Through all their relationship, Richelieu had always loved games and their past had been fraught with many games of hide and seek, scavenger hunts, and a ridiculous number of things that shifted the balance of power in their relationship. He’s not surprised to learn that it’s still going on, after it’s over.

He folds the ticket and slides it into his inner pocket, wandering to the window that looked out over the office. Athos had gone back to work while Anne and d’Artagnan were deep in conversation about their latest work. Aramis, however, had snuck a hand into the back pocket of Porthos’ jeans and they thought they were being subtle stealing a moment alone while everyone else was working.

The one constant was that they were _never_ subtle.

For the most part, they kept these indiscretions brief, which meant Treville only had to watch them for a few moments before Porthos’ sheepish grin appeared. He kisses Aramis’ cheek and moves away, the moment over.

It’s long enough for Treville to have felt a pang of envy. Not long ago, he’d had that. Richelieu would stop by with lunch or presents, often locking the door and pinning Treville to the very couch he’s looming over. Those moments of quiet intimacy that only come from a couple who’s begun to make a life together have now evaporated.

Richelieu has made his choices, but he’s also made an offer.

Treville could have all that back if he just gives up the life he’s made, here. Athos and Anne could run the office with ease, he knows. He’s sure none of the others would begrudge him for following his heart, though there might be some judgment about where his heart leads him. So with a plane ticket in his pocket, he now has to make a decision.

Lucky for him that the ticket is for three days from now.

He has plenty of time to decide what his future will look like.

* * *

When Anne leaves the office on late Thursday night, she’s the last one out. At least, she’d thought so, but after shutting off the lights in the main area, she catches one that she’d missed -- Treville’s desk lamp. She’s been working overtime to close the loop on an investigation that will hopefully catch them a forger (and catch her a bonus) and while she has a late night drink date with Ninon, she’s got some time before that.

She opens Treville’s office door and peers inside, but he’s not sitting at his desk.

“Come in.”

Ah, but he is on the sofa. Anne steps inside, perching against his desk and crossing her arms as she stares at him. There’s a crumpled, folded piece of paper on his chest and a mobile phone beside it. On the ground, an open, half-empty bottle of brandy lies present and by the smell of him, Treville has been indulging.

“Burning the midnight oil?” she questions.

“Waiting out the clock, more like.”

She adjusts her stance, giving herself the opportunity to lean forward and see what the piece of paper says. It’s a plane ticket for a flight that took off two hours ago. She can’t quite make out the destination, but sees the class he’d been meant to fly in and it doesn’t take the sharpest mind to make the deduction as to who it’s from. She’s proud that he’d stayed out of her own selfish desires because while the man might not be half as ambitious as Anne generally looks for, it’s turned out to work well for them. He gives her the leeway she needs and she gets the job done.

She can only imagine what it would be like, working for the man they called the Cardinal. She wonders whether she’d even have survived that.

“If you keep drinking that bottle, I’m going to have to accuse you of following Athos’ poor example,” she warns, given that brandy is Athos’ poison of choice. She tips her head to the side and inspects the bottle a little closer, smiling privately when she realizes that he’s unknowingly sponsored tonight, given that it’s the bottle from his desk that Treville has taken. “Did you consider it?”

“What, leaving?”

Anne doesn’t grace his sarcasm with a response, patiently waiting for him to say something, instead. She doesn’t plan on leaving and Treville isn’t half so hesitant about denying answers (like Athos) or skirting around them with charm (Aramis’ favourite tactic).

“I considered it,” Treville finally admits. She wonders what had made him think about leaving all this, wondering if a mere man could be enough to tempt Treville away from everything he had built up. She supposes in the end, it hadn’t been near enough because he’s right here and staying with them. 

Anne isn’t given to shows of emotion so often, but the immense relief she feels at his staying catches her somewhat off-guard. She tries to mask it by leaning forward to pry him up. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll call Ninon and cancel my plans. We’re going out.”

“The whole group?” Treville asks, a wary glint in his eye.

“Nowhere you need to see Aramis, Porthos, d’Artagnan or his little miss,” Anne vows. “We’ll go somewhere that happy couples avoid at all costs. The local dive bar ought to do. And when you’re good and plastered, I’ll help you stumble back here and tuck you in so you can stubbornly come back into work the next morning.”

He still seems wary and Anne doesn’t blame him. After all, how exactly do you mourn the death of a relationship with a man who appears to be the head of a crime syndicate? Not in any normal way, surely. 

“Maybe I’ll head out to the family estate,” Treville says, sitting up and steadying himself on the cushions. “Somewhere I haven’t been in over a decade so that not even Armand knows where I am.”

She purses her lips, but says nothing about the fact that she’s sure if Richelieu is half as devising and wicked as he’s meant to be, he already knows every last secret Treville has ever harboured in his life. Still, her boss is tipsy, heartbroken, and doesn’t need to be reminded of that right now, so she concedes with a grateful nod of her head. 

“I’ll tell Athos to take over until you’re back,” she says.

“No,” Treville says, nodding to his keyring on the desk. “You. Can’t have anyone getting comfortable around here. I’ll be back in a week,” he says, as Anne palms the keyring and feels a frisson of pleasure at the power she’s being handed.

Shame it had to come at the expense of someone else’s well-being, but at least no one is injured or dead.

She straightens her posture ever that slight bit more and nods, already making her own plans on how she’ll get the office back in shape, even if she’s only in power for a few days. She puts that aside in mind as she helps Treville by fetching him a blanket and two paracetamols, but once he’s secure, she heads back to her desk with a private smile of victory on her lips, preparing herself for the temporary boost in responsibility.

* * *

Anne’s reign lasts nine days, exactly.

Aramis is relieved beyond belief when Treville steps back in the office, hanging his hat at the door. Everything has been clean, buttoned-up, and works on a schedule so organized that it might make the Swiss trains weep. It leaves no time for lunch quickies, hardly any time to linger at the shooting range, and forget about leisurely lunches.

They have, of course, brought in three new clients, so he supposes not everything is all wrong.

“He looks happy,” Porthos observes suspiciously, from where he’s perched on Aramis’ desk, hiding behind the newspaper as he spies on their boss. “Anne said when he left, he was a mess.” And she hadn’t told them why, but it hadn’t taken much intuitive guessing to reason that it had to do with the Cardinal. “What do you think’s changed?”

“Perhaps a rebound? Or peace of mind? Maybe he’s settled Richelieu in the past?”

Athos sidles over to join them, having overheard their entirely not-private conversation. “No,” he says. “He’s whistling.”

“So the rebound,” Aramis insists.

“Treville?” Athos asks warily. They’re all thinking it, but none want to say it. What if Richelieu isn’t as out of Treville’s life as they suspect him to be? That’s not something they can ask the man, though, especially when defiant ignorance is the easiest way to avoid getting into trouble when there’s so much law involved. It’s for this reason, this awareness that they should be living in ignorant bliss, that Athos continues. “Well, good for him,” he drawls with amusement. “I’m sure _he_ will keep his indiscretions out of the supply cupboard.”

“That was once!” Aramis retorts, but Porthos reaches a hand to rest on his knee to calm him. “Once,” he huffs, but his protests die away as he stares at Treville’s happy countenance. “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” is all Aramis says, quietly.

“I’m sure he does,” Porthos promises, squeezing Aramis’ knee. “Have faith in him, would you?”

Aramis studies Treville as he takes the keys back from Anne, thinks about the peril of his ex (or maybe not so ex), the law’s interest in the man, and then thinks about their job. He resolves that it’s none of their business and continues with the day’s and the week’s work. When it turns into their business, that’s when he’ll care, but for now, Treville looks happy.

And that’s all that matters.


	8. The Squeaky Third Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange things are underfoot and have left Athos as the touch-point in a triangle that he hadn't even known he was a part of until now.

“Has hell frozen over?”

“I don’t think so. Did you check the window for pigs flying.”

“We haven’t launched Richelieu, of course that won’t happen. Go on. Ask!”

“ _You_ ask him what he’s doing here.”

“I’m not insane,” Porthos hisses back at Aramis, who’s currently unrolling out his yoga mat. “You ask. He expects that sort of idiocy from you.”

For the first time since Aramis has joined the office and started to date Porthos, they’ve showed up to their regular yoga class to find not just d’Artagnan there, but Athos as well. It’s the sort of thing you expect to see when the world is ending, but not at the usual Thursday night class. It’s not only that he’s there, but he looks beyond miserable.

The both of them are still squabbling intensely when someone new walks through the door and all becomes clear.

Because there, with a green mat and at Anne’s side, is Ninon. Her hair is tied up in a fashionable ponytail and she’s wearing a sleek, form-fitting outfit that looks straight off the shelves. “Well, that makes more sense,” Porthos says. “I mentioned the class and Ninon said she’d like to give it a try. Anne said she’d come, too.”

Aramis raises his brow, feeling awful for being such a gossip about this, but it does thrill him so. “So who is he here for? The ex-wife or the therapist?”

“This is better than your soap operas,” Porthos says as he starts to set up his own station – right in front of Aramis, as their tradition mandates. 

He looks back over his shoulder as they slide into their first pose, trying to get a better look as to where Athos’ gaze is straying, but it’s no use. Athos is four across and two down and whoever he’s looking at will to remain a mystery to Porthos, because the best he can see is that Athos is concentrating on his own reflection.

And yet, he must be here for one of the two women because only two things could get Athos here.

The first is Treville mandating it and the second is one of the two women who are currently working several partner poses together. It’s a mystery to be had, for sure, but one that Porthos can pay attention to later, because Aramis is currently holding out a hand to him expectantly, waiting for Porthos to join him for his own poses.

He watches Athos for just a moment more, long enough to see him roll up his mat and head for the door before the class is over.

“I mean,” Porthos says, leaning over Aramis’ body, “he could be a pod person.”

“It would explain the purple mat,” says Aramis in knowing return.

* * *

The next Monday at work proves to be the beginning of a long one when an awful, strange tension hits the air when Anne walks in. Athos literally stops his story mid-sentence, mumbles an excuse about needing to check inventory levels of paperclip supplies, and locks himself in the supply cupboard.

D’Artagnan stares after him with horror, then back to Anne. “Did you hypnotize him to sort paperclips when you wear a certain perfume?”

Anne smiles wryly and shakes her head. “A lady never tells.”

There’s definitely something odd happening, because when Ninon joins the conversation to profusely thank Porthos and d’Artagnan for the yoga recommendation, Aramis catches Athos staring creepily through the blinds. He excuses himself and heads into the office, locking the door behind him, and assuming the ‘you’re going to spill’ stance.

It’s the one he uses on Porthos practically daily when he’s trying to get the man to confess to not throwing out the coffee grounds.

“What did she do?”

Athos is trying desperately to avoid eye contact, which is practically the biggest sign of guilt right there. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“No? Is that why you haven’t bothered to stay in a room with Anne or Ninon for more than five seconds? I mean, I know their perfume is quite strong, but I did think you a touch nasally stronger than that, Athos,” he chides, trying so badly to hide his smirk.

It may not be obvious to the others, but Aramis had been a consummate flirt for years and years before he’d started to settle down with Porthos. He well knows the panicked look of a man who’s gone and found himself drowning in a _crush_. He also knows well enough that to say such things aloud to Athos will have him assigned to the most intolerable assignment possible (which is usually some sort of liaison work with Labarge over at the Guard Agency). 

The trouble that the whole office is currently having is that they aren’t entirely sure who the crush is on. Aramis has taken it as his mission to find out.

“You realize that dragging personal information from me is akin to torture,” Athos drawls.

“Porthos says I’m a masochist.”

“I didn’t need to know that,” Athos replies, shaking his head as he barely withholds a groan. “You’re not getting an answer.”

“At least do me the courtesy of nodding whether I’m right about the crush,” Aramis pleads, glancing out the window to where the group of their coworkers is having a merry time laughing and joking together. Certainly better than the frigid environment Aramis is currently locked in. “Athos,” he begs when Athos simply stares at him. Huffing, he shakes his head. “Fine. But just for that, I’m going to punish you by letting you know that Porthos and I have had sex on three surfaces in your office and until you come clean, I’m not telling you which.”

In response to that threat, Athos calmly reaches down and pries out a container of bleach wipes, very thoroughly beginning to clean down each and every surface.

Serves him right, though, when he doesn’t even consider the chair as a possible surface.

* * *

She’s five minutes late. 

Ninon had promised to be here at precisely nine PM for drinks, but it’s five past nine and she isn’t showing any signs of waltzing through the door. Athos is beginning to run through both all the likely scenarios that may have delayed her, but also begins to concoct an exit strategy that will have him out of here and back home in time to watch the news. 

Instead, all his plans are thrown awry when Anne arrives with her good clutch, wearing a silver dress, and a pair of heels that Athos _knows_ for a fact are her ‘fuck me’ pair.

“You didn’t mention you were going to be here,” he says, unable to help the drift of his eye over her form. Anne being on a date while Athos has drinks with Ninon is hardly the worst thing in the world, but he knows himself. He’s going to be consummately judging the man she’s with and will inevitable need to take advantage of the fact that his opinion is often encouraged and wants to be heard. “I should leave.”

“I don’t think you can,” Anne replies, amused.

Athos opens his mouth to ask why when Ninon finally arrives. “The bloody dog refused to let me out,” she sighs, tucking her umbrella away as she leans in to press a kiss to Anne’s cheek, leaning over to do the same to Athos.

Oh.

… _Oh_.

He hasn’t been double-booked. This is an intentional attempt to bring them all together in what Ninon must think is some sort of therapeutic unconventional session. He turns to the bar and orders himself the largest glass of wine he can, because he’s going to need it for tonight, he gets the feeling. 

He sinks into his stool at the bar while Anne and Ninon discuss their day around him, as if they’re both determined to drag him into this conversation. 

“Athos,” Anne chides, resting her hand on his shoulder. “You’re not being very nice to your date.”

Athos glances to the side and takes in what Ninon is wearing, for the first time. She’s clearly made an effort in her sleek black dress, but she’s opted for far more practical flat shoes and a chic twist of her hair. She looks as beautiful as always and Athos’ heart beats double-time for a moment before he returns to reality.

He knows the question he wants to ask. It’s even on the tip of his tongue.

The trouble is that it’s such an awkward question and he’s not sure how to demand of his ex-wife that she leave before his date gets even stranger. Yet, there are things that don’t make sense. For instance, why is Anne here in the first place and why is she dressed as if she’s seeing someone? 

Finally, it clicks in his head that this isn’t therapy.

“This is a date,” he says.

Ninon smiles playfully at him, trying to hide it behind her glass of wine (unsuccessfully, he might add) before she turns that all-too-innocent look on him. “And you said he wasn’t bright,” Ninon notes to Anne.

“I said he wasn’t observant,” she clarifies. “He’s plenty bright.”

“You’re here on a date with both of us,” Athos says dumbly, feeling the need to state the obvious if only for himself (and to make it all the more real). That’s why Anne is wearing what she is. That’s why the both of them keep shooting him hopeful looks.

That’s why Athos turns to the bartender and orders another double as they set in beside him, proving to him that it’s going to be a very long night.

(He really must ignore his frantically beating over-eager heart because the fact that he’s this excited and hopeful is a dangerous, awful thing that must be stopped before it even has the chance to get started)

“I’m going to need a bottle of wine,” he remarks calmly to the bartender.

No matter what happens now, at least he’ll be well-prepared.

* * *

The next morning proves awful from the very first when Athos arrives to work with a headache (probably from the wine, which is very inconvenient because Athos had thought himself and wine to be _friends). The headache is in no way helped along when he walks in to the expectant looks of far, far too many of his hopeful coworkers who all know that he’d gone on a date with Ninon the night before._

“Well?” d’Artagnan asks eagerly, cornering Athos the very moment he gets his briefcase settled on his desk, as if it were a starting shot in a race. “How did it go?”

Athos severely regrets telling his friends that he was going on a date with Ninon precisely for this reason. Now, he’s going to have to spend his day explaining the awful, ridiculous mistake multiple times (and he’ll have to keep the forceful denial up for hours and hours, lest he lean into the truth that he’d actually rather enjoyed it all, once the wine had kicked in). There is the second option to tell them absolutely nothing, but that’s never worked out well for him in the past.

Aramis and Porthos are watching him and they’re both wearing that infuriating smirk they’ve mastered, which means that they must think _they know_ something and are just waiting for the perfect opportunity to catch Athos off guard and really, truly rub it in his face. He has no idea whether they actually know the truth (office gossip is wildly correct and incorrect in turns, but Athos has vowed to find out and destroy the channel of information. He’s also irritated by them and their easy two person relationship that seems to rarely hit speed bumps and when they do bicker or fight, it’s not about the fact that suddenly two women you really like (love) want to be in a polyamorous relationship with you.

Well, Aramis may have had some fights like that in the past. He’s _Aramis_ , after all.

“It was fine,” he replies, trying to brush past d’Artagnan in order to begin his day. 

Unfortunately for Athos, d’Artagnan has learned persistence from nearly everyone in their office and doesn’t know when to give up. 

“Just fine? You look a little miserable for it to have gone fine. Aramis,” d’Artagnan (blasted fool that he is) shouts for their friend and brings both him and his Porthos-shaped appendage into the conversation. “Does Athos look like he got laid?”

“Unless Athos has suddenly decided to find pleasure in his pain, I don’t think so,” Aramis replies, smiling so calmly and with such innate relaxation that it doesn’t take any deductive skills or reasoning to know that Aramis has definitely gotten laid within the last few hours. Bastard. “Athos. What happened? You’ve had two times the chances to get lucky.”

This is true. To their knowledge, Athos has been on two dates with Ninon (unofficially), but to Athos’ paranoid ears, he hears that as Aramis knowing that somehow Anne had been there too, even though it’s impossible for him to know “What?” d’Artagnan asks, aghast. “And you still didn’t seal the deal?”

Porthos isn’t even bothering to refrain from laughing and Athos hates them all a ridiculous amount at this very moment. He’s nearly ready to lash out and snap at the lot of them to mind their own business when he’s saved by an angel.

“Athos,” Ninon remarks from the door to her temporary office that Treville has given to her for her time there. “Can I have a word?”

Well, the closest thing you can find to an angel in this office, at least.

He tries valiantly not to look anyone else in the eye, lest they cause him to flame a furious red. Anne is staring at him intently from across the office where she’s been sitting watching the melee quietly. He wonders what she’s thinking (something he’d never had to wonder about before, because despite all their troubles, they’d always maintained a near telepathic sort of link). He extricates himself from this awkward and horrible conversation as quickly as he can, locking the office door behind him.

Ninon stares at him with amused surprise, both hands in the air. Athos wastes no time trying to pick up where they awkwardly left off the night before, closing the blinds (he can actually see d’Artagnan trying to get a peek inside) before he slides his arm around Ninon and presses his fingers to the small of her back.

She gives him a wry look. “The rules, Athos.”

Yes. The ridiculous rules that say that he’s not allowed to initiate any sort of personal contact of romantic affection until all three of them are present. He parts from her in order to open the door. “Anne,” he barks. “In here. Now.”

He can see the way the others look at each other, clearly suspecting something is terribly wrong. Athos is happy that they seem to think that and that Anne’s cool, calm look doesn’t give away the game. She excuses herself calmly and closes the door behind her. 

“They all think you’re about to ream me out,” Anne remarks calmly. “You’d better shout.”

God above, he must be an idiot to be considering trying this relationship again, but there’s a new variable in it now with Ninon acting as a buffer. Athos has never stopped loving Anne, not for a single shred of a second, but they had always been too abrasive. And yet, now rather than rubbing sharp edges against each other, they now have someone who’s actively interested in the both of them.

Athos thinks that their shrink must have her own mental health problems and yet here they are.

“Now?” he asks impatiently.

Ninon exchanges a wry smile with Anne. “He tried to break the rules.”

“Oh dear,” Anne replies warmly, hiding her smirk behind her hand very poorly. “Was it for something interesting, at least?”

“Only a kiss.”

If this is the way of things, Athos has several complaints he’d like to lodge. “Well?” Athos asks, impatient and growing cranky in the way that a man without enough physical affection can grow. It seems that the two women (one he’s loved for a very long time and one he’s coming to become quite infatuated with) are done with their silent conversation.

“Oh, give him what he wants. He’s not particularly attractive when he pouts and that’s what comes next,” Anne indicates. Athos isn’t even bothering to pay attention to her. After all, Ninon is bearing in with the sweetest coy smile he’s ever seen and Athos is dumbstruck as he stands there waiting helplessly, closing his eyes as they kiss for only the second time, but it’s every bit as perfect as the first.

When he eases back, he doesn’t know that he should have been expecting Anne to step in and claim her own, but it does happen and Athos’ mute phase continues because he doesn’t think anyone could be expected to provide decent thought when such beauty is before him. Ninon is light in contrast to Anne’s striking dark (right down to the clothes they wear) and together they make a perfect yin and yang.

It’s so perfect that he’s suddenly attacked with the worrisome thought in mind, _what if they don’t need me at all?_

Some of the panic must show on his face because Ninon looks at him with worry and Anne reaches out to drag him into their arms, turning a two-way embrace into something much tighter and intimate. “Athos, I thought you said you wanted this,” she says quietly. “I’m drawing up the papers now to transfer you to a new therapist. Samara is a touch younger, but she’s very good. Should I stop?”

He had said that, last night. He’d vowed that he did want this because maybe he’s been lonely too long and he keeps going back to Anne and it keeps not working, but what if they’ve just been doing it wrong.

“They’re going to be insufferable when they find out,” Athos says darkly. “All of them.”

Ninon returns to her papers, picking up her pen as she signs the bottom. “Treville first,” she says, playing the professional when Athos is still wondering how long is too long before someone comes to knock on the door and ask what they’re doing. “I’ll have Samara come and do your first appointments. From there, it’s up to the both of you who you’d like to tell.”

Anne and Athos exchange a look and it’s like the telepathic link is right back in place where it’s always been.

“Aramis will be an insufferable arse,” she complains. “If only Porthos would break up with him so I could share the news without knowing he’s never going to let either of us live it down.” Athos understands all too well. He wants to tell d’Artagnan, but doesn’t want Constance to find out because he’s worried what she might start to think of him. 

“Why don’t we keep it to ourselves?” Athos suggests. He can already hear the plan being doomed the minute he says it out loud, but he has to try and suggest it. He wants something to be theirs, if only for a bit. The pessimistic part of his mind is telling him that he’s stalling because he doesn’t think it’s going to work.

Either way (reality or privacy), Athos thinks it’s a good enough argument to not rush out and tell everyone. That builds expectations and gossip and all manner of things he doesn’t want to bring into his life. Chaos has never been Athos’ friend and this whole situation looks like one that can get messy fast, the more people that are involved.

And they’re already operating at higher capacity than a relationship normally does.

Ninon looks as though she disapproves, but luckily Athos knows Anne’s mind.

Her wish for privacy will be just as strong as his. “Agreed,” she says with a firm nod, confirming Athos’ suspicions. Ninon purses her lips, but seems to relent when it’s clear that it’s two against one (something that’s worked to Athos’ favour this time, but he can all too easily see this working against him).

Secret it is, then.

At least, for as long as they can manage that in an office so wildly gossipy as theirs.

* * *

They do all find out. Of course they were all going to find out, but he’d really hoped deep in his heart that he could prevent that from happening as long as he possibly could.

One concession is that it happens much later than Athos would have ever suspected (which is a miracle in and of itself). When it does happen, Athos curses the fact that they all tend to share recommendations for places to eat, otherwise they might have been able to keep things quiet much longer. He’s in the middle of ordering wine for the table when Aramis and Porthos walk into the restaurant in their suited best.

Athos, of course, is also in a suit and Ninon and Anne are as striking as ever. It would be extremely hard to pass this off as them enjoying dinner after a long day of work, dressed as they are.

The restaurant is small and leaves no place to hide, which is why the very moment Aramis and Porthos catch Athos’ eye, there’s an approximate window of ten seconds before they figure things out, being far too clever for their own good. 

Damn them for going out on so many dates in public (against Athos’ wishes, but that damn two to one vote has betrayed him, as expected). Damn Aramis and Porthos for having the same idea. He excuses himself sharply and stalks across the restaurant to shove both men in the direction of the washroom, a dangerous look on his face.

“Threesome in the bathroom?” Aramis deadpans with a smirk. “I never thought you’d ask. I’m extra flexible lately, too. I’ve moved from the beginners to the intermediate yoga class, officially.”

Athos throws a helpless look to Porthos, as if he could somehow control his boyfriend.

Porthos shrugs. “Sorry, he’s just like this all the time. I tried looking for the off switch.”

“He found the on instead,” Aramis replies with a smile that he surely thinks is charming (and unfortunately, it sort of is. “What’s Anne doing here?” he demands, instantly switching topics as if he’s been desperately wanting to do nothing but ask. “Did you interrupt their date? Is she interrupting yours?” He seems far too gleeful for Athos’ liking, standing there disseminating his date like it’s something to entertain him.

“Aramis,” Porthos warns, but before Athos can turn to thank him, he continues and proves that he’s on Aramis’ side. “I’m sure that it’s probably just an unconventional therapy sessions. Maybe they’re doing ink blots with the marinara,” he smirks.

“You’re both immature children,” Athos says, moving towards the door as if he can escape when he knows that dinner is far from over and there’s no chance of that. He sighs, knowing that he can only prolong the inevitable for so long. “Fine. You want to know the truth?”

They both nod rapidly in tandem, well-dressed adult infants, the both of them.

“This is a date,” he says.

“Yes, that’s obvious,” Aramis drawls, craning his head to the side to give Athos a dubious look. “Who’s crashing it?”

“No one is.”

“What?” Porthos asks, forehead scrunched up as if the facts and figures are slowly taking their time to process in his mind. “Wait.” Athos sighs, because he can actually see it click from the look on Porthos’ face and the glint of awareness in Aramis’ eyes. 

“Athos, you dog,” Aramis accuses, sounding practically gleeful. “It clearly wasn’t your doing. I’m assuming you stumbled into the relationship?”

He doesn’t even bother to give that an answer. The silence, unfortunately, has a habit of speaking louder than words. At least Porthos looks like he’s moved on from teasing to genuine happiness for him, that smile softening. 

“I’m glad for you. We both are,” he quickly corrects, shooting Aramis a warning look that says he’d better not imply anything otherwise. “Is it awkward if we stay? We don’t have to,” he says. “There’s a decent pizza joint down the street and despite what Aramis says, he has absolutely no care about mucking up his shirt with grease.”

“Only because I don’t do the laundry anymore.”

Athos knows that if he lets them go, he’ll have a peaceful evening and he’ll enjoy his time a great deal more. On the other hand, he also knows that it will leave things open to speculation and both Porthos and Aramis have imaginations that run far too wild for their own good. So he does the long-suffering thing and sighs.

“Stay,” he gets out the word, feeling like it’s an endless slip of a thing. “We’ll push some tables together.”

As if three people on a date hadn’t been awkward enough. Athos has now elected to push them to five. He pushes them out of the washroom before they decide to make the most of their time there and gives Ninon and Anne an apologetic look as he sets new chairs and a table with them. 

“It’s a party,” Anne exhales. 

“Would you rather they talk about what they _think_ we’re doing?” he deadpans.

“Touché,” Ninon agrees wryly, but she doesn’t seem the least bit upset about this. In fact, she seems to be excited to see the other two, going so far as to greet them with fond hugs and inside talk that makes Athos realize that while he and Anne have done their best to exclude themselves from any potential office social scene, Ninon has done just the opposite, creating herself a forum of friends.

Maybe this is why it’s bound to work so much better this time.

Athos settles back with his napkin in his lap and takes in the scene around him. The conversation is flowing and when the wine arrives, it only bolsters the warmth and the sharing of stories around him. The food is good, the atmosphere is the most pleasant he can expect, and when Anne reaches for his hand and squeezes, holding it in his lap, Athos feels a burst of belonging the likes of which he hasn’t felt in years.

It’s not going to be perfect. It’s hardly going to be easy. 

But at least he’s going to try.

* * *

The next morning, Aramis and Porthos arrive to work with well-earned hangovers. Athos takes mild pleasure in the fact that his tolerance allows him to have drunk the exact same amount of liquor, but be able to face Treville’s briefing without the dreaded knowledge that accidental sickness may be on the horizon. 

He sets Alka-Seltzer water on each of their desks atop an elegantly scripted note.

_Speculate on our sex lives and I’ll make sure you pay._

(Aramis, thinking it’s an empty threat, ignores it completely. Athos, who is not the sort of man to warn idly, quickly sticks him and Porthos on opposite shifts, steals Porthos’ lunches from him, and reminds him of what Treville and Richelieu must look like in bed together)

From there, things begin to run a lot smoother.

Not perfectly, of course, but the speed bumps are only molehills and not mountains and that’s an improvement for a man like Athos.


End file.
